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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23757676">where time stops//memory takes over</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothdotjpeg/pseuds/mothdotjpeg'>mothdotjpeg</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Other</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:07:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,650</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23757676</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothdotjpeg/pseuds/mothdotjpeg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A poetic perspective on loss, homesickness, dissociation, and being a young adult that focuses on you, a 20-year-old person coming to the city they grew up in. Rediscovering what it means to be home, finding old friends, and the constant struggle of feeling alive and grounded while someone tells you what to do.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 2:00am, September/23rd/2016</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a personal novel I am working on and using this platform to share it with others!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Prologue/ finding your way home</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was something in the air. Like the world knew. The rain felt hot as it fell onto your skin, but the breeze was freezing against your cheeks. It was peaceful, it felt peaceful. Loud, crazy, confusing, but peaceful. Around you flickered neon signs, the lights inside stores turned off. Everything was slowly quieting, calming, coming to a stop. The streetlights seemed to be the only thing still glowing in the early morning air. Your eyes blurred the lights, turning them into streaks against the dark sky. Like shooting stars shining through the clouds. Despite the world around you, the open signs that turned off, the curtains being closed; you were lost inside your head. In there it was loud. The music blasting in your ears, the thoughts that coil around your brain. It’s not overwhelming, just normal. Peaceful. It’s mindless, as you wander through the streets, into the darkening city.<br/>You know your way. The rhythm of your feet walking without thinking, the rain falling softly. It’s like every night. The warmth that hits your face as you push the door to the apartment building open. Letting the cold air push past the heating, onto the dust-covered armchairs in an unused lobby. It’s empty. It’s 2 am after all. So you find your way to the elevator, and you wait, lost in your music.<br/>Not counting the seconds it takes for the doors to open.<br/>Not counting the seconds it takes for the doors to close as you stare past them.<br/>Not counting the seconds it takes to reach your floor.<br/>The rhythm in your feet starts again as you wander down the hallway to your door. You can hear the rattling of your keys as you pull them from your pocket. The action of unlocking the door is swift, clean, fast. And before you know it, your keys are back in your jacket pocket and the door is closed. It’s silent in your apartment.<br/>The kitchen has a dirty plate in the sink, the couch has blankets slung over it. Messy but normal. You slowly unlace your sneakers and leave them at the doormat. You wander past the bookshelf and the table, you leave your jacket on a dining room chair. There’s a fake fireplace that has an old tv on top of it, a candle or two resting there as well.<br/>You quietly slide the balcony door open, so your mom doesn’t wake up, and you sit down. The concrete against your bare feet, the night air against your bare skin. The rain has stopped, the clouds are clearing up. The moon glitters on the windows of the buildings around you. Sounds of cars are distant, music and voices float up through the fall air.<br/>Mindlessly you wrap your earbuds around your phone and shove them into your pocket. One of your pant-legs is still cuffed, the other loose around your ankle. Normally you don’t look at yourself, normally you peer out at the city. The black sky, no stars to be seen. The smokey air, the heat that lingers trying to keep summer here. But you can feel the fabric of your light grey t-shirt against your skin, your fingers pull at the bottom to untuck it from your worn-out black jeans. Everything hugs closely to your body.<br/>The night air finds its way through the fabric and into the pores of your skin. Your socks are balled up next to you, and you let out a sigh.<br/>“Hey, it’s freezing out you should come inside.”<br/>The sliding door is cracked open. Her voice is quiet and empty. Tired. You don’t turn to look at her, but you feel the door open more before she slips out to join you. It’s silent again, and you feel her hand comb through your brown curls. The dull maroon of her hoodie catches your eyes, but you just look forward. Pretending she’s not there. It’s not that cold after you get used to it. You don’t say that though.<br/>“Whatever weirdo.”<br/>And she disappears inside. Somehow you know your mom is standing inside too. Looking at you as your sister returns to her room. Somehow you know she’s worried. But she doesn’t know that you just got home. You could’ve been sitting there for hours.</p><p>The silence is nice. It’s peaceful. It’s quiet.</p><p>“Welcome back.” </p><p>	Not too silent.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 12:03 pm, Saturday November/12th/2019</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You return home after three years again, and you find yourself at a coffee shop.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was almost like everything was normal. Different jeans, a different haircut, but the same old backpack from your senior year, the same smell in the streets. It was almost normal. You’re wandering around like you’re lost. But you aren’t. This is home. The air is the same air you grew up breathing, the wind still nips your ears and face. There’s the distant clap of thunder, the same rain that always rains. There are puddles beneath your feet, leaving your toes damp and your shoes soaked. You don’t even mind the squish that your socks make with each step, because everything is the same. It’s making your skin crawl. For some reason, you thought it would be different. Nothing would look the same, you’d feel lost in these streets. But the concrete is the same color, and the people have the same look in their eyes. Briefly meeting before passing you. It’s all the same. Your stomach turns, and you realize how empty it is. How empty you feel. <br/>It starts to rain. You’re wet now. The heavyweight of your hoodie clings to your skin. Drenched. You don’t really mind. The way the air smells, cool and fresh, but still smoky. Like no matter what happens the cigarette buds will still cloud the air, and the sky will stay its ashy black. The sky is bright, you notice as you look up. The clouds look clear, and the sky behind them is blue. It’s cloudy, and it doesn’t stop the rain, but it's blue. It’s blue. <br/>You don’t mind anything. <br/>You don’t mind the rain, the smoky air, the water in between your toes. <br/>You don’t mind the buzz in your head, the blue of the sky, the lack of sunlight. <br/>You just exist. In the same place that you always have. It’s really the same. It’s like you never left. But you did. <br/>The air isn’t cold, and neither is the rain, that has now slowed into a drizzle. No one notices though. No one cares about the rain. The rain is the rain. The same old rain. No one notices anything, you notice. They are all absorbed in themselves, which is how most people are. The phone calls they are having, the buses they are waiting for, the taxis they are calling. They focus on themselves, and you focus on them. There’s a pause in your music, waiting for you to do something. Because you have stopped, without realizing it, you’re frozen in place. So you wait for your music to do something. <br/>	10 seconds <br/>	15 seconds <br/>	30 seconds <br/>You pick your phone up, to see someone is calling you. So you wait and watch it go to voicemail. But they don’t leave one. They just send you a text. You turn your phone off, and your music begins again. The squish of your socks in your shoes, the rhyme of you walking. The rumble of your stomach and the dryness in your throat. It’s almost noon. <br/>	“Welcome to the Main Menu.” <br/>The voice catches you off guard, it sounds like it’s coming from behind you. But when you turn around no one is there. No one says anything and it sounds like the air is humming. Oh. You take your earbuds out and it stops, you put them in and it’s back. Your phone screen is the same, the same lock screen, your music paused, the text hovering there waiting for you to respond. <br/>	“You don’t feel real, do you?” <br/>Their voice is deep and soft. Familiar. <br/>	“Well, you’re not real either.” <br/>In a quick snap, the humming stops and you’re left in the silence. Your music starts. At peace again. You shove your hands into your pockets. The gurgle of your empty stomach fills the space in the air. There was nothing at the airport for breakfast, well there was. You just didn’t want any of it. Thinking about eating made your stomach ache and a gag settle in the back of your throat. You’re only a few blocks away from a coffee shop, you realize as you observe the buildings and pavement around you. So you’ll get there and see. <br/>	The sidewalk looks like a deep black, and the streetlights shimmer on the thin layer of water covering it. Streetlights at noon. The clouds keep getting heavier. You can’t tell if it’s sadder than you left it. Maybe the clouds just feel more like home. Like you could float there forever. Up in the sky. The crosswalk counts down from twenty, so you jog to get across the street. Water splashes at your ankles, but they were already wet. <br/>	Before you realize it, the coffee shop door is in front of you. You’re staring through it, into the half-empty store. The smell wraps around your head and seeps into your skin, even from out here. You hesitate before you push the door open and let the warm press against your face. It smells like heat and deep brown. The shop is quiet, only the sounds of the coffee machines and the clicking on keyboards fill the soft air. It looks fuzzy like static is filling the space around you. Your eyes aren’t focused, the objects just blur together. <br/>“Hey, welcome to Florence Flavors. What can I get you?” <br/>The voice startles you, and you blink a few times to get back to earth. Their voice is soft, which matches how they look. Golden eyes, light brown skin, blue fabric, the smile that settled on their lips. <br/>	What. <br/>	What can. <br/>	WhatcanIgetyou?<br/>	You. You. You. You. <br/>	What can I g-g-g-get you? </p><p>Excuse me? </p><p>	“Excuse me?” <br/>It was your voice, a bit too loud for the cafe. The keys stop typing, the clicking pausing before returning to their normal speed. Their eyes squint in confusion, just for a heartbeat, before their smile returns. <br/>	“Oh, I just said: what can I get you?” <br/>Oh, you know that. Now. You look stupid, standing there. Your hoodie drenched, one shoelace untied, your hands dug deep into your pockets. Suddenly you’re aware of everything about you. How you’re standing, your wet hair, the fact someone is looking at you. That you aren’t in fact see-through. <br/>	“I’ll probably need my wallet.” <br/>It doesn’t really fit into the conversation if this counts as one. Their smile breaks again, but their expression stays kind. Water drips onto the floor as you slowly take your hand out of your hoodie pocket, the sleeve stiff with cold liquid. As you take off your backpack, you forget where you are. Mindlessly you dig through the strange selection of things you own, all stuffed into the breaking backpack from your senior year. Somehow your wallet had found its way to the bottom, where a layer of water settled, slowly seeping into the canvas. You take it out, slinging your backpack back over your shoulder, feeling the wet weight settle against your shoulder blades like normal. Oh, your shoulders ache. That grounding feeling of pain. It’s fake leather, now soaked. You carefully take your debit card out, seeing as the cash is also wet and you didn’t think the cashier would appreciate it. Suddenly your aware of where you are again. Making eye contact with the cashier’s eyes, they sparkle golden green. <br/>Sorry.<br/>But you don’t say it out loud. Awkwardly, you step forward so you aren’t standing on the edge of the colorful doormat. You’re actually in front of the counter, with your card in hand, just realizing you haven’t told them what you want. </p><p>	“Idiot.” <br/>HHHHHHMMMMhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.</p><p>	“Sorry, I’m jet-lagged.” <br/>An easy excuse. A lie that slips. You are. Are you? <br/>	“Can I have a large hot chocolate?” </p><p>Their smile stays, it’s barely shifted, but it feels real. Not like most people’s stiff unsure smiles. <br/>	“Yeah, of course. Anything else?” <br/>Your stomach rumbles. It claws at your organs and makes a shiver run up your back. Mmmm. <br/>	“No thanks, that’s all.” <br/>Mmmmmmmmm. Hhhhhmmmmm. You put your card into the machine mindlessly. Most of your actions are mindless. Like you’re on autopilot. <br/>“Would you like your receipt?”<br/>Followed by a beep. You return your card to your wet wallet and shove it into your back pocket. The humming stays, you shake your head and thank them quietly. The humming stays, your shoes leak water as you walk to a chair. The humming stays, your backpack finds a place next to the armchair. The humming stays, your body sinks into the warm cushions. The humming stays, you close your eyes. <br/>The humming stays.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 1:30pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Taking the train</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The hot drink settles in your empty stomach. You thanked them. You let the armchair hold your body. If it was yours. Your hoodie was still wet. Your jeans and shoes had dried a bit. The humming quieted. The rain quieted. It was nice. The hot chocolate had the perfect amount of whipped cream. Maybe everything was okay. Music fills the air around you, the cold crisp air. A weird feeling was deep in your chest. Under your left ribcage, around the fifth rib. The feeling of home. You knew you’d come here for hot chocolate again tomorrow. Probably see the same cashier, with their blue headscarf and their golden green eyes. Maybe this place could be home again. You really hoped. <br/>	“What does home mean?” <br/>The clouds darkened. Ten seconds of peace. Ten steps, a sip of hot chocolate. Enough time to briefly feel something similar to relief. But your eyes unfocus and the deep voice returns. <br/>	“What does home mean?” <br/>The soft hushed breath hits your ears. Like someone is placing a kiss on your neck, whispering I love you in your ear. But their words aren’t kind. They dig in between your ribs, replacing the comfort with the same empty feeling that happens when you’re standing in a coffee shop, drenched. <br/>	“I don’t know.” <br/>Puddles splash, liquid moves around inside you, at the same pace. Like someone planned it. Saying I don’t know was too familiar. He used to say you knew. That you just had to think. So as you walk, you think. The humming settling into your brain, white noise that calms your knotted stomach. It’s unsettling but calming. You think. <br/>	“You don’t know.” <br/>The rain returns to the darkened clouds. For some reason, you want to take your hoodie off. It’s soaked. But then you’ll have to hold it, and that’s not any better. Even though your eyes are blurring everything together, you find yourself walking downstairs. Heat pressing against your face, but cold puddles resting on the ground. Your fingers find your wallet again, and you mindlessly find your pass. Through a turnstile, people around you doing the same thing. The humming in your brain matches the distant hum of a train. You take your earbuds out and shove them into the pocket of your jeans. The only hum is the train tracks. Which is oddly quiet. No one around you talks. They’re just waiting. Just like you. <br/>	The puddles look funny down here. Because there’s no rain, no sky. Just concrete and train lines covering the wall, the signs saying each street name. Different colors, tracing into your brain till you feel sick and have to close your eyes. Squeezing your eyes closed, you take a gulp of your hot chocolate, already cold. Everything grows cold in seconds, with the crisp breeze and icy rain. The puddles look funny down here. You barely see them, just the glint from the smear of lighting that leaves the corners dark and the street signs bright. <br/>	Hm. Hhhmmm. It comes closer before the train intrudes the quiet and invades your eyes. It sends you back a step, unprepared. No one else seems bothered, focused on their own things. You focus on them. Because, after all, you have nothing. You focus as people bleed out of the cars, finding their way past you, past the people, past the puddles, up the stairs. Opening umbrellas, and wrapping coats tighter to their bodies. You wait for them to pass, you let people move past you into the train. It’s peaceful, you’re still. Feeling the world spin around you. You make your way onto the train, which is already packed. Just you and your backpack, finding a space to stand. <br/>	“Hold on.” <br/>You are. Stupid voice. Sending a shiver down your spin, before the train starts. Sending a rush into your hands and feet, squeezing your eyes tightly closed so you don’t see the world outside, the windows whizzing past. It makes your empty stomach turn. The colors blurring together, the silence of the train, the hum. The damn hum. <br/>	You used to stand here every few hours. Back and forth. From your apartment to who knows where. You were never alone. There was a voice that wasn’t just in your head. A voice that held your hand and made the colors stay out of each other. A voice that made everything not seem so silent. <br/>			A voice that makes your heartache inside your nostalgic ribcage. </p><p>You used to stand here. You are standing here. It seemed so much more vivid back then. Even though the sky was still dark with rain and the train station was still dim. Maybe you need glasses. Maybe then the colors wouldn’t blend together. <br/>	So you ponder. And think. You always got lost in your head, you always forgot the world around you. Because inside your head it was so much easier. Sometimes it was easier. Other times you had to turn your brain off, and you had to grasp the handhold tightly in the train and focus on the way your body was swaying. But not today. Not today. Today your head is easier. Rain drips inside, slowly running down through the lobes of your brain, past the cerebellum, coating your brain stem with cold icy water, till it all swum down your spine. The train stops, you don’t look at the stop. You just feel the rain seep into your muscles, tensing your shoulder blades and the base of your back. One hand is holding onto the strap on your wet backpack, no rain touching the light freckles that cover your skin. The other, tapping a rhythm onto your thigh. Beneath the black denim of your left thigh is a pool of colors, you had a bad habit of hitting the turnstile with your thigh. Leaving a bruise that hurt to touch. But you tap anyway. Randomly your music starts to blast in your earbuds. A song that happens to follow the beat you make against your leg. You assume that your phone is glitching out because it’s sitting, soaked, in your back pocket. That makes sense. Things need to make sense. <br/>	“This is your stop.” <br/>			“Welcome to Grant. Please make sure to take your bags and belongings.”<br/>You’re standing in the rain again. It’s wet. Maybe you’ll never be dry again. You hope that’s not the case. It’d be nice to change into a dry shirt, this one is sticking to your chest. As you start to walk, you dream of the clothes in your suitcase. But the suitcase is in your hotel. And you’ll have to wait. Wait for the warm. But there is warm air down here, people hurrying around you, heat spills from invisible vents. You still feel cold. <br/>	The ever-changing weather is still dreary and cold, the rain still comes down, heavier than before. It can never make up its mind. Sprinkles, drizzles, downpour. In and out, light then dark. Clouds changing their mind. The sun never staying long enough. If the sidewalk is dry then the city is probably crumbling around everyone. You didn’t use to mind. But then you got used to being dry. And now you mind. Part of you hated that you minded. After all, this was home. This was normal. But this didn’t feel normal. You should invest in an umbrella.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 3:25pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jamie</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So?” <br/>You’re staring at your phone. For the past hour, you had forgotten about the text. The missed phone call. You preferred it that way. You also preferred when the voice wasn’t rooted deep under your occipital lobe. Sending a hot pain down your spine. But you can't have everything your way. So what? The green bubble seemingly hovering in front of your eyes. <br/>					Call me. <br/>So. You should. You could. But you wouldn’t. Maybe you shouldn’t. What would you say? It was too hard. So you just stare. Your sitting on a bus stop bench, you’ve let all the buses move on. People give you weird looks. That’s not new. Ten minutes. Then it was twenty. Now it’s been half an hour and you’re just staring. Pathetically looking past the words. Like maybe if you stare long enough they’ll disappear. They haven’t. Maybe if you stare longer. <br/>	“Get it over with.” <br/>The humming is replaced with a ringing. It rattles through your head, into one ear and out the other. It makes your empty stomach fill with dread. It rings. Maybe it’ll go to voicemail. And you’ll leave a text. Maybe the cycle will continue. But no, of course, it picks up. 	<br/>	“So?” <br/>This time the voice is thick, swimming into the cracks in the phone static. Warm unlike the air around you. Warm but invasive, unwanted. <br/>	“So what?” <br/>You didn’t mean it to sound so harsh. Well, maybe you did. It’s just phone static now. Just silence. Painful silence. Even though you don’t care. That’s what you realize, sitting here at the bus stop. You don’t care. <br/>	“What’s your plan?”<br/>His voice is rough, scratchy around the edges. It sounds like smoke, although his lungs had been empty of that for years. Hearing his angry voice made your skin feel surprisingly cold, missing the hot smoke that would fill the apartment. Smokey clouds drifted above you, but that was natural blackness in the sky. No fire alarms being set off. Later the batteries are taken out. You missed it, in a weird way. Like you missed this place. And now you’re here. So what? <br/>	“Don’t tell me you don’t have one?” <br/>You can’t lie and say you have a plan. You have a want, a need maybe. A goal. Even if it’s unreachable. You can lie, you realize. You do it all the time. And it’s not because you’re untruthful. Truth is just hard when you don’t have trust. But you have trust. You think. Maybe you just hope. <br/>	“I have a plan.” <br/>It’s a scratchy warm sigh, filled with anger and disappointment. It sends the flavor of campfire smoke down your throat. Why does he even care? The silence lingers now, filling the air with hot discomfort and black lines running through your head. Static seemingly growing louder and louder in your ears. You beg for a response, quietly hoping he says anything. <br/>	“Should I believe you?” </p><p>  idontknow. idontknow. idontknow. idontknow. idontknow. idontknow. idontknow. idontknow. </p><p>	“Please let me know before you jump.” <br/>And then he hangs up. The campfire smoke sticks in the back of your throat as you take a breath, filling your lungs with baby blue air. You feel the color coat you, leaving your throat cold. You cover your mouth so the air doesn’t sting the back of your mouth. Phone returns to pocket, music resumes in your earbuds, slowly you close and open your eyes. It’s been forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes on the bus stop bench. It feels like it happened in five minutes. A quarter till two. The afternoon sky is dark. It’s always dark. <br/>	You get up. You start to wander around. Waiting at streetlights, walking through crosswalks. Staying on the damp sidewalk, realizing the rain has been gone for a while now. That you don’t feel drenched. Just damp. Just cold. </p><p>	He had long dark dreadlocks, they were usually tied up into what resembled a ponytail. His skin was as dark as his black hair, with a slight touch of golden glitter that found its way onto his cheekbones and the tip of his nose. Blue jeans, normally. A colorful shirt, random patterns that never resembled anything in your mind; maybe its because your eyes were so unfocused. His teeth were oddly white for someone who’s voice sounded like the piles of cigarette buds that used to litter the carpeted floor. There was always a look in his eyes like he knew something he shouldn’t. Maybe he did. Most nights, you were alone in your apartment. He’d come back after you passed out on the couch. You’d wake up with a blanket that wasn’t there before and his bedroom door closed tight. Other nights, he’d stay home. He’d sit on the dining room table, surrounded by pieces of paper. You could never read what they said, but you didn’t really try. <br/>	“What are you doing, Jamie?” You’d say. <br/>He would just shush you. You would just listen. After awhile you gave up asking questions. You let him be shrouded in the mystery of his own little world. After all, he let you live in the mystery of yours. The two of you just coexisted, staying out of each others’ business. You cleaned the dishes when he was working. Blasting music. But by the time he got home, the apartment would be quiet. It was domestic. Warm and welcome. Weird to others maybe. <br/>	“What are you doing?” He’d ask whenever he came home early to see you sitting on the counter, chopping vegetables. You were a stupid teenager, chopping vegetables at three in the afternoon. You would just shush him. And Jamie would smile, and lie on the rug in the living room. Listening to your music, smelling the green air.  Those moments were rare. </p><p>	You remember the way your apartment felt as you walk along. The way the carpet squished between your toes and under your feet. You splash in a puddle, making ur toes curl. Foggy air, that stung your eyes for the first three months. Cigarette smoke that turned to incense. The wavy air above the stove when you turned it on. You walk through a cloud of smoke, you don’t even try to see who’s releasing it from their lungs. You just move on. <br/>	“Where to?” <br/>This time it sounds like it’s coming from deep within, between the left and right side of your brain, snug close to your hippocampus. Like a memory even. Things get lost so easily between your ears. Where to?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 4:17pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You find your way home</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You just look. It feels so distant. Like it’s being shown on a faraway movie screen. Like slowly, you watch the curtains close over a stage, the 2d set is being covered by a layer of fabric. And suddenly you can’t see it. Even though it’s right there, just a few feet away. The movie screen turns black, it’s like they cut the credits and left you alone as the lights light up to show you down the stairs. But you’re standing still, staring. It looks the same. <br/>“Go inside.”<br/>	You do. <br/>It’s less dusty, or maybe you just don’t notice. The lobby is warm, muggy even. The armchairs have coffee tables by them. Magazines lay untouched. It was weirdly large for the building since no one ever sat there. <br/>	“Go upstairs.” <br/>		You can’t. You’d need a keycard. One you gave up years ago. <br/>So instead you sit down in one of the armchairs. It’s not as comforting as the one that was in the coffee shop, but it holds you. You cough, the dust lifting into the air as you move. It’s weird to see the lobby from this view. Sitting down. Normally you see it briefly as you walk through, door to elevator, to door. Now you just rest, watching. <br/>No one comes in for a while. For a long while. You’ve spent most of your day just waiting around. It’s almost four, you’re brain turned off for a while. Until the doors open and you startle. The person is tall, their shirt is pink. It catches your eye and they move swiftly through, not noticing you or the world around them. They swipe their keycards, waiting for the elevator. <br/>“Go upstairs.” <br/>The doors to the elevator open, and the person steps in. Somehow you find yourself next to them, they smile at you kindly before the doors close. What floor?<br/>	“What floor?”<br/>Their voice is kind but slightly uncaring. Somehow they coexisted, you tell the person: eleven. They click the button.<br/>“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” <br/>“Oh.”<br/>You don’t know what to say. You never really do.  <br/>	“Just. Visiting.” <br/>It’s not a lie. But the way you hesitate makes you sick to your stomach. The person smiles a bit. They assume you’re a teenager after all your back is hunched and you’re below average height. Your hair isn’t groomed, your eyes linger on the ground. Like you haven’t grown up yet. There’s a reason for that. You want to say that no, no you are grown up now! But they just smile. <br/>	“Well have fun.” <br/>They leave you at floor five. You continue alone. It’s silent, eery maybe. It lingers at your sternum, close to your heart but off a bit. Like something is off. <br/>	When the doors open, when you step out. They close behind you and you’re lost. You’re lost in it. In the smell, the dim lighting. The same old carpet. It feels like your dreaming. Like you’re lost in a nightmare, where you have to go through the same thing again. The same thing. Over and over. And it makes your head spin. </p><p>There’s something that makes being here feel wrong. Something is off. Off. Off. off. off. off. o f f.</p><p>	You hear nothing. Pure silence. Your headaches. It feels like your eyes are closing, the lights in the hallway are dull yellow, flashing into your eyes. Your brain feels like its messing it up. Like everything is getting turned around and getting to your frontal lobe all wrong. You blink. You breathe. Nothing changes. The lights stop flashing. They look like the hum of a television. Humming is driving you insane. It’s in your eyes again, making the silence look amazing. It’s in your empty stomach, it’s in your eyes, your hands, and feet. You feel it. The world beneath you. <br/>Humming. H u m m i n g. Mmmmmm. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Hhhhhmmmmmmm. </p><p>1112</p><p>Home is a tree planted in your chest. Under your left ribcage, around the fifth rib. It’s roots growing inside you, sending pain through your bones as you sit slumped on the uncleaned carpet. Its leaves have fallen off, resting in your stomach like butterflies. The bark is thin and flakey, like a birch tree. Pale, see-through. There’s a door at the base of the tree, twisting around so the handle is at the base of your back. A window between your shoulder blades. Branches weave around your bones, veins finding home close to the skinny limbs. Wet soil makes up your legs, the muscles inside feeling weak supporting the weight of oak. The weight of the wood. Squirrels make nest height up in your head, a constant chatter that leaves the birds resting on your fingers. Blue eggs stain your skin, before disappearing as they learn to fly. Leaving you barren for winter. The feeling like you were home for all the beings that lived inside your branches and your wood, and now you’re cold and shaking on the floor. </p><p>1112 </p><p>Hhhhhmmmmm. Mmmmmmmm. <br/>	“Hey?” <br/>You’re crumpled on the floor, your feet hurt, your eyes are dull. It’s felt like another few hours when you look up you realize it’s only probably been ten minutes. Maybe less. You blink away the tears in your dull eyes. You’re met with worry. <br/>	“Sorry, I, uh?” <br/>The pink shirt looks brightly lit like it isn’t there in the dim hallway. Out of the place. Their expression is confused, worried, a little relieved?<br/>	“Are you okay?” <br/>Suddenly you realize how you look, crumpled, shaking, teary-eyed. You move to sit up better, but you don’t stand because your feet are screaming at you. <br/>	“Oh, yeah. Just… waiting for my friend to get back.” <br/>You weakly gesture to the door. 1112. <br/>	“And my feet hurt?” <br/>It comes off as a question, so you clear your throat. You try to smile, you can’t really. <br/>	“Oh okay.” <br/>You both look at each other. They tower over you, a loose smile on their lips. The air in between you is dead and still and weird and awkward. It’s tense without trying to be. It makes you gag silently. The humming that fills the air, it creeps under your skin and into your brain and veins. <br/>	“Oh right! Sorry, I didn’t think I’d find you. I was going to get something from my car that I<br/> 	 forgot, and on the floor of the elevator was this. I assumed it fell off your bag or <br/> something.” <br/>A metal pin sits in their palm as they hold their hand out to you. It’s five years old, you got it on a road trip with your mom. You had stopped at a flea market in the middle of nowhere, spending an hour or so wandering around the place looking at the strange selection of things. Your mom had bought you this pin, it didn’t really resemble anything. You spent the car ride to your hotel guessing what it was or had been. You named it Karl. <br/>“Holy sh-, dude thanks.” <br/>They smile as you take it. Your focus is on the pin now, and you see how the back snapped off. When you look up, you just see a smear of pink left in the air. The elevator doors closing. You put Karl in your pocket, you slump back against the wall. </p><p>	“Welcome to main menu.” </p><p>Humming.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 5:54pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Finding your way to a french fry joint</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The breeze hits your face, sending pain deep into your pores. Your skin feels extremely dry as you start to walk. The evening air feels different. Dry and aching. It feels like the pain in the arches of your shoes, you shouldn’t have worn your converse. The five o’clock evening sky is dark. Not with clouds or rain or sadness. But simply because the sun has set, simply because the world wants to be at rest. Meanwhile, the buildings around have lit up. Leaving the drying puddles glittering with the bright neon lights. There’s a haze around everything. It’s dark in the sky but the ground looks like someone spilled paint. You step in the puddles to numb your aching feet, and your shoes stay their same plain color. Not real paint. <br/>You feel dull in comparison. Like this, this brightness and undertone of happiness that leaks from the darkened city. That this is something you’ll never get to be. You’ve lost this. You’ll just be the breeze before the rain, the warning sign. The first clap of thunder. A clean canvas, soon to be wrecked. And you’ll never get the warm colors back. <br/>The flustered cold blush on your cheeks is even dull. Staining your skin with the cold dry air, but leaving you looking paler than before. <br/>So you walk. <br/>It’s dinnertime. The restaurants are crowed, as is normal on a Saturday night. As is normal. The streets are busy, parking spots full, traffic moving increasingly slow. The world around you is crowded. Even with the dry air, it feels warm. It feels peaceful and bright even with the puddles and the cool breeze. You smile at no one, at your feet, at the puddles, at the calm. At the fact that your music is playing peacefully in your ears. <br/>You feel warm. <br/>Your stomach is empty, well aside from the butterfly leaves. The haze of emptiness and warmth shrouds your brain, making the humming fade and turn to static white noise. Dry air makes your mouth feel dry too, you should probably drink some water. <br/>Even though you’ve been here since noon, even though the sky is dark and you’ve wandered around with no place to go. Even though home doesn’t feel like home, you feel like you’ve been here for ages. You feel like you’ve been wandering for weeks with nowhere to be and it makes your head spin. Five hours. And you feel like it’s all gone by in the blink of an eye, but also fills your heart with empty space that could fill a galaxy. <br/>You feel sick. <br/>You feel empty. <br/>You feel hallow. <br/>Mindlessly you walk. Your feet are numb, and your music swirls colors in your head. The world out here is beautiful. It makes you want to sit down again and sit for another long while. You know this place. It’s so familiar, so normal. But it’s not all there. It’s like the paint of the puddles bled into the world around you and it’s all gone. It’s the same. <br/>It’s like you’re rewatching a show on a tv and it’s there. It’s all there and normal. The buildings, the set, the clothing, the faces. It’s all regular. Just a rerun. But it’s just on-screen. You can turn it off and stand up and walk away. You haven’t been there, lived there, breathed the air. It’s all a fake world you built in your head, in your dreams, and you’ll wake up. Because you can’t touch it. And nothing around you right now feels like you can touch it. You can’t think. <br/>But your feet make the choices, following a map that’s built into your head. Following your empty skin. Till you stop, look up and squint. </p><p>Friz’s Fries. </p><p>It’s a weird little restaurant. Small. Almost just a thin yellow line on a blank canvas. At first glance, you don’t see it. You miss it. It slips past you. Well, not you. It sticks out in your mind, like a thick black line on a blank canvas. It’s simple and small. It’s like a crack in time. Like it’s not supposed to be there. Like you can touch it. <br/>You’re standing there, staring at it. You’re good at standing. Staring. Sitting. Waiting. Wandering. You’re also good at forgetting. Forgetting until you feel faint and dizzy. Until the neon open sign seems too bright and the windows seem endless. And you wanna throw up but there’s nothing inside you. <br/>Numbly you walk into the building. The crack in time. So the outside world stops and you stand in front of the door, feeling the breeze on your legs before the door swings closed. You stare at the menu that hasn’t changed, and the empty white walls. And the tables, the shell of a restaurant. It’s plain and simple and not paint. It’s not paint. It’s not smeared with the color of lights and nighttime in the city. It’s not busy outside the windows. People pass, a car or two, a bus. But it’s not crowded. It’s not busy and orange and cozy. It’s crisp and cool and it’s home. For the first time in five and a half hours, you feel a little bit closer to home. <br/>“Hey there! How are you? Sorry for the wait.” <br/>He’s young, probably still in high school. The grin on his face seems real, and his dark eyes look at you happily. Your hands-free themselves from your pockets, and you crack your wrists. Sore and sleepy, welcome to night in the city. You look at him for a minute, the way he stands behind the counter. Back straight, a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up his arms. He’s taller than you, but not by much, You’re staring, so you glance away. <br/>	“Hey.” <br/>Pause. <br/>	“Don’t worry about it. I’m doing fine.”<br/>Your voice is stronger than you expected it to be, and you flinch as you speak loudly. Like you know what you’re doing. Maybe you do? <br/>	“I was actually, uh.”<br/>You don’t recognize him, but he seems familiar. <br/>	“Want some fries?” <br/>He can see that you're stuttering, he fills the void like there’s nothing weird. You’re stopping to collect your words, so much for the strong tone. <br/>“Do you? Or did you just come in so you could heat up?” <br/>It feels like a Friday night, and you feel someone’s hand in yours. When you look down it’s gone. You do want fries. But there’s unfinished business. When you look at the boy, it all slips away a bit. His eyes are soft and dark and make your hands ache. You want fries. And to wait and watch and sit. You want your numb feet to rest. <br/>	“I’ll have a small fry.”<br/>Knowing words are back. You know. You know the sound of the cash register opening, the smile, the seat you find. The large windows that look out into the city. You’re in the small part of town, the poor part of town. The city without all the city. The simple part. It’s a plain chair, you’re just relieved to be sitting again. Time slips past you like you’re falling. But your feet tell the pain of the day. The aches scream and release a shiver down your body when you finally let them breathe. You stare out the window at the clear night. How can it be so dark at 5:30 pm? <br/>	“Here you go.” <br/>His soft eyes look blurry around the edges and you blink to sharpen them out. No words escape your mouth, but your lips move. He smiles. Quickly, before he turns around to leave, you read his nametag. Jake. And then he’s back to the kitchen and you’re left alone with the window.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. 6:43pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Wasting time</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It snows in December. Never earlier. But the snow doesn’t stick till Christmas Eve. It stays on the ground till Groundhogs day. Then the rain comes back to wash it all away. So you admire it when it comes. The white flakes filling the air. It feels right. Right now, it’s clear and clean outside. The changing rain from the day washed everything clean and you smile at it. At the clean world outside. The smoke was swept away, and now people are bringing it back into the air outside. You walk through the smoke, past the people lingering in the evening air. The big windows, white lights glaring off the glass, it made outside seem hazier. Now it’s just dark. <br/>You had thanked Jake, you had listened to music, you had rested. You had stood up and left. But you still felt that feeling. That comforting feeling. You’d go back tomorrow and ask. And talk. You’d leave everything for tomorrow. Maybe you’d do this all again. It had been nice. Just watching the world pass outside. <br/>	But the snow. The snow wasn’t going to come for three more weeks. Five weeks. And then you’d taste it with your chapped lips and have it soak your shoes. Right now you got the rain, on repeat. The thunderstorms and downpours. The clear nights that felt good. Even if you still had to wear a scarf. You didn’t have a scarf. You had a damp hoodie and damp pockets for your hands, and damp jeans, and damp socks. And wet shoes. Because of the puddles. The painted puddles. <br/>	You had texted Jamie. You had looked at Instagram lazily, and listened to spam voicemails. You had thought about making soup. You had eaten your french fries. Could you be homesick for a place you didn’t call home? Could you be homesick when you’re sitting in your home? Maybe you could. Maybe you felt homesick. <br/>	Back the way you came. Past the buildings, now it was dimmer. Quieter. Your eyes don’t hurt. You don’t feel faint, but your feet still hurt. You find your way back, till you're waiting for the train again. People stand around you, in their own worlds. Till you’re on the train. Sitting this time, watching the world fly past. Lost inside your head like normal. Till you’re standing in the middle of the city again and all the color is intense and you stare at it all for a while. It’s pretty. Till you’re wandering around lost, trying to find your hotel. <br/>	Till your phone rings. Right now, when you’re standing on a street corner that doesn’t seem familiar looking at Google Maps, squinting harder than you ever had. You need glasses. You listen to the phone ring, your eyes are not squinted anymore. For the first time in a while, you feel relief from the name on the screen. Your chest releases and you forget about your long day. You forget about the walking, the waiting, the sitting, the staring. Till you answer the call.<br/>	“Hey, I can’t find my hotel.” <br/>You don’t want to tell her where you’ve been. Right now you just want to be home.<br/>	“You can’t? Where are you staying?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. 7:32pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hotel room</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the first time you had heard her voice in years. You think about it, as you lay on your hotel bed. The comforter is pulled off and thrown across the second bed. Two queen size beds to yourself. So you stare at the ceiling and think. You’re backpack under the comforter, your phone inside. Your suitcase sprawled across the floor. Toothpaste, deodorant, scattered across the pillows. Wet clothing laying under the desk by the vent. A towel over the chair. Wet from your hair and damp skin. Not damp anymore. You stare at the ceiling. Smelling the warm air. Her voice sounds like warm air. The bed holds your skin, you haven’t put a shirt on yet. The towel was soft against your pale chest, taking all the water away from your skin. Your pajama pants are thick and loose around your legs. It’s cozy. You want it to snow. The ceiling is white. It’ll have to do for now. The bed holds your skin. Your bare feet lay on the pillows, your head at the end of the bed. Sheets press against the skin of your back. It’s warm. <br/>	You sit up, crossing your legs in front of you. Back slumped, looking around at the room. It should feel lonely, you think. To be alone in a hotel room. Looking out the window, past all your stuff on the second bed. But it’s not. You feel safe and comforted. Slowly, you drag yourself out of the bed to the ground. Returning to your cross-legged position in front of your suitcase. It’s a mess of whatever you decided to shove in it two nights before. Whatever you had clean, which was everything because you used to do laundry every day. Your hands mindlessly find their way to the bottom, to a plain white tank top. You tug it out from under another pair of shoes. Things fall out, but you don’t put them back. You let the room get messy, you let yourself not care as you pull the tank top over your head and let it hug tight to your chest and stomach. There are butterflies resting there like it’s home. It’s empty in there. Other than the french fries. <br/>	You lay onto the bed again, looking out the window. It’s pitch black in the sky, but there’s orange light on the wall from the lights outside. You’re aware of your body as you lay here. All the fabric holding you close. Holding you together. You feel tired all of a sudden. Like the darkness of the hotel room and the warmth of the air, the feeling of the sheets against your bare arms, and your damp hair leaving drips of water against your neck, like it all just hit you. You’re actually there. Your feet resting, you’re comfortable and safe. Alone. <br/>	Rain starts outside, it’s 8 pm now. It feels later than that. It feels heavy and comforting and your eyes slowly close till you can’t see the lights outside, the orange light on the wall. It’s just dark, and you’re alone. </p><p>	“Welcome to the Main Menu.” </p><p>You stare at the ceiling. For a moment you wonder if you had passed out. But you look at the clock next to your bed. 8:03 pm. You had been so warm. But the core of your brain is freezing. So you sit up and shallow the dryness in your throat. <br/>	“Can I go to sleep?” <br/>Aching feet hit the carpeted and clothing covered floor, you open the cupboard under the tv and find the empty paper cups. Bottled water, but you don’t open it. You trudge to the bathroom and fill up the cup. The lights stay off, your eyes want to rest.<br/>	“Close your eyes.” <br/>You drink the water slowly, the water settling in your empty organs. The cup stays on the bathroom sink, and you return to your bed. Crossing your legs, you take a deep breath. It’s just dark again. <br/>	“Okay.” <br/>The cold pain is gone, it’s just a shiver going down your spine. You don’t feel warm anymore. Okay. This is just part of it, you realize. This is just what you get. You should’ve expected it. But you had gotten used to the quiet of Jamie’s apartment. And maybe you hoped it’d stay that calm and quiet and peaceful. But the humming. It’s inside your bones again. <br/>	“Can I please go to sleep?” <br/>You turn yourself around and bury your face in the pillow, letting the bed hold your weight. Your feet lay uncovered over the sheet. You’re so tired. <br/>	“Main menu needs set up.” <br/>It’s behind your ears and you don’t feel alone anymore. You take the sheets and cover yourself with them, turning your head so you can stare out the window. <br/>	“I’m too tired.” <br/>The humming stays for what feels like an hour, but watching the clock means you know it’s only been ten minutes. Then it shuts up. Then you’re alone. And the heat turns back on, or it never left and you just feel it now. You feel warm. And alone. And you don’t remember when the orange light turned off. But you remember feeling safe. Like you’re home. Even though you’re in a hotel room alone. It’s nice.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. 5:00 am, Sunday, November/13th/2019</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Waking up</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s 5 am, according to the clock. The dim light peers through the window, waiting to say hello. You roll over onto your back and stare at the ceiling, it’s light in here. Orange replaced with blue from the morning sky. It’s the morning light, a clear sky from 5 am to 9 am. Right before the rain comes. You sigh into the warm morning air. It’s too early. It takes you awhile, but you crawl out of your sheets and onto the second bed. Your hands dig through your backpack, which is mostly dry now, to find your phone. There are a few texts, but you ignore them. Concern, worry, you let the guilt settle in your chest. You aren’t jumping yet. <br/>The hoodie laying over the vent is dry and warm, you pull it over your head and let the heat settle in your skin. You put on jeans, and dry socks, and your shoes. You find yourself in the bathroom, brushing your teeth and staring at yourself in the mirror. You look tired. But you always do. Backpack over your shoulder, keycard in your back pocket, you find yourself waiting at the elevator. It takes a while, and you look at your shoes while you wait. <br/>Ding! <br/>It’s strangely cold in the elevator, you want to sit down because your feet have started to yell at you with aching pain. You ignore it. Leaning against the wall. Lonely floors pass. Till you reach the ground floor and walk out. Looking around at the lobby that was empty last night when you got there. It’s empty now, breakfast opens in an hour. Most people are still asleep. You stand in the lobby. Huh. There’s no point in staying here, you won’t eat their Froot Loops. So you wander into the morning air.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. 7:09am</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Red Boulevard</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Empty sighs fog up into the air. They look like smoke, but you’re lungs are clear. It’s been ages since you smoked, you think about it as you stare into the morning fog. From here you can see everything. It’s 7 am now. It took you awhile to get up here. The train doesn’t go to the edge of the city, and the buses only go so far. You have to walk. Everyone here has a car so they don’t need the buses to come here. You needed them. Or you had needed them. Not anymore. Everyone called them the suburbs. They were still in the city, but they weren’t the city. Just a bundle of houses weirdly stuck on the outskirts, on a hill. You liked it over here. The other towns around the city were just towns. But here had a weird attachment to the skyscrapers. A weird air of the city lights, but the only lights were ones lingering on street corners and inside houses. The morning haze is setting in. Casting an orange mist over the plants and flowers, even the weeds look beautiful in this light. The rain from the evening is gone, leaving small drops of dew on the blacktop. You’re just sitting on the sidewalk, legs crossed, staring out past the roofs of houses to the seemingly distant city. It’s foggy morning air and a weird warmness that makes you feel comfortable and safe. Your eyes don’t feel heavy and tired, but calm. The world lets you sit there and do nothing. Just watching for awhile. <br/>	You used to come here almost every afternoon. Straight from school, or after work. After school you’d walk, your hand in someone else’s, enjoying the fall coolness and the warmth of someone next to you. After work, you’d take the bus to the closest stop and run to get to his house before dinnertime. Some afternoons you didn’t come. Either because you were inside drinking coffee or eating french fries together, on a rare occasion you’d be in your apartment, or because you would spend your afternoon alone. You preferred not to think about those days. <br/>	His house was small and filled to the brim with things. It felt warm and welcoming. It was cramped, not as cramped as your apartment, but having overflowing bookshelves and a dog made things feel smaller. The kitchen filled with food, and a grand piano in the living room instead of a couch. The basement was the least cramped, still filled with books and board games. It still amazes you how much stuff one family can own. <br/>	You feel the warmth, the cramped hot even in winter air deep in your chest. It’s hot oxygen in your lungs, filling your bloodstream, making your head foggy like the morning air. This feeling is calming, and warm, and fuzzy. You feel like maybe if you close your eyes for long enough, when you open them it’ll all have been a dream. Maybe you’ll be here waiting for him to come and join you before school. But you don’t close your eyes, you just watch the city and the fog move around for a while. </p><p>		You remember how it felt. In your ribcage. It felt right. </p><p>You get up. You stand on your tiptoes, you rock onto the balls and heels of your feet. You stretch your fingers and hands and reach your arms out. You close your eyes and breathe. Letting the air fill your lungs, your ribcage expands and then closes. You clench your fists and toes and squeeze every muscle in your body. And you let yourself feel it all. The release, the tension, you do it again. Stretch, squeeze, until your lungs feel free and your rib cage is empty and you open your eyes and you start to walk back the way you came. Ignoring the house that was behind you, it looks the same. You gave it a glance as you walked here, and it felt suffocating to look at. But now you let it go. And you feel it. You feel everything.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. 12:03pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A conversation in a coffee shop</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“He’s back!” <br/>You look at them confused. You’re standing on the doormat of Florence Flavors, it’s 12 pm now. You need a drink and to sit, your feet hurt after walking around all morning. This time, as you look at the cashier, who’s grinning at you, you aren’t drenched. You’re dry. It’s hot in here, outside is still cold despite the lack of rain. It was weird. The city was the same way it had been yesterday, the morning air the same. You walk toward the cashier, as you think about how you just walked around more. You really need to go do something. But that was for later, you suppose. You can think about it. <br/>	“Yeah, I’m back.” <br/>You say it in a tone that’s somewhat questioning, the cashier laughs. <br/>	“You’re just kind of memorable, no offense.” <br/>Standing drenched, mumbling random words, memorable. <br/>	“Anyway, what can I get you?” <br/>You hear them this time, you hear the words and see their mouth moving at the same time. That makes your stomach stop buzzing with anxiety. <br/>	“Just a large hot chocolate.” <br/>They nod and click on the register. You watch them, their headscarf is the same sparkly blue as yesterday. They seem to shimmer.<br/>	“That’s all?” <br/>You just nod. Today you give them cash. They smile as they count your change. You shove it into your pocket. And you linger there for a moment too long. <br/>	“So, you new here or something?” <br/>Their eyes linger on you as you look up from your feet and make eye contact. You could’ve walked to your chair in that second, but now they’re asking questions. <br/>	“Uh, why?”<br/>The simple question makes anxiety grow in your chest. That’s a long story. A story you’re going have to tell so many people but you don’t want to burden the cashier with it. They smile.<br/>	“I know most of the folks who come here, you’re a new face. A new face that’s been here<br/>twice now. So did you just moved into a gloomy apartment across the street and you’re coming here for your afternoon boost of warmth to stop the cold feeling that fun fact: will never leave your fingers now that you have unpacked your boxes here?”<br/>Fingers that sit cozy in your pockets, used to the cold. Boxes, just a suitcase sitting on your hotel bed. Gloomy, it’s still gloomy. You came here because you’re been here more than twice. More than anyone should spend time in Florence Flavors. <br/>“You think I can afford one of the new apartments down here? Florence Tower, only well<br/>off families live in the tourist part of town. What do you take me for? I’d only be able to  <br/>afford the rent for an apartment with a few crappy roommates uptown.” <br/>They look at you somewhat surprised. <br/>	“Huh.”<br/>You leave them to find the same chair you sat in yesterday, and they make your drink. They don’t call out your name, you look at your feet until you feel someone standing in front of you. They stand with your hot chocolate in hand. <br/>	“Thanks-”<br/>They hand it to you and turn their head, questioningly. <br/>	“Visiting?” </p><p>	“I haven’t decided yet.” <br/>They smirk and walk back to the counter, and start stocking coffee straws and sugar packets. You sip your hot chocolate and smile into the whipped cream. Before you notice the wet on your face and wipe away a loose tear. You haven’t decided yet. <br/>	Visiting?<br/>Maybe you are. Maybe you’ll see the people you used to love, breath the painted rainy air and then go back home. Continue to make soup in the afternoon. See the glimpse of Jamie you get to see. Continue to live. Maybe the hotel will only hold you for a few days, your suitcase will return to the depths of your closet. Maybe this isn’t home anymore. Just a place to visit. Maybe that’s what you want. But you can’t figure it out yet. You can’t decide. <br/>Home. Homesick in Jamie’s apartment. Homesick here. What even is home? <br/>	“You don’t know.” <br/>Maybe you don’t. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.  </p><p>	Your hot chocolate is warm in your hands, making the cold leave. Just for a second. You look at it and it makes your eyes ache. The heat drying you out, your skin, your bones, your organs. Dry, cracking like paint. You sigh into the warmth. And you stand up, stretching your dry back, holding your drink in one hand, using the other one to sling your backpack over your shoulder. You start to walk towards the door. <br/>	“Goodbye,-” </p><p>	And then they say your name. A casual farewell, but it startles you, and you turn around confused. Before you realize, they know your name because you gave it to them. It makes you uncomfortable, that they know so much about you without knowing you at all. <br/>You leave realizing you don’t know their name. God, you really are an idiot.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. 12:20pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Finding Thyme</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Next to Florence Flavors is a tall old building called Florence Tower. You look up at it. It’s tall. And touristy. Family’s take photos outside, and you wonder why they came. It’s just a skyscraper, reaching into the clouds. It’s just old, it’s not even the tallest in the city. But you wander inside anyway. It’s warm, people wander through, looking at different plaques and pictures, the busiest place is where you slowly walk to. The gift shop is small and filled with Florence Tower, and other local trinkets. Books, pins, pens, shirts. Lost in it all, in the color and the mess, the organized chaos, you see her. You turn around and walk out and back onto the main floor. There are a few benches against the wall for people who need to rest their feet after walking up all the stairs, you just need to stare at your feet and think. <br/>	“Okay! Tour group one, we’re heading up to the top, please hold the door for others!” <br/>The elevator doors ding above and you stare at your feet. It’s been years since you saw her. Even though you heard her voice yesterday night, it still feels weird. You wonder if she’ll recognize you, with your short hair and your tired eyes. The new clothes that you’ve gotten from Jamie for the last few Christmases. You wonder if she’ll know. If she’ll blame you or not. She looked different now, not too much so. Her face looks the same, with an extra wrinkle between her brows. Her eyes are the same, kind and harsh, thick eyeliner and deep black pupils. But she stands a bit straighter, and her clothes are less black, and her earrings are longer. She looks more grown-up. Well, that makes sense, she’s an adult now. But you wonder if she’s changed more than that. <br/>	Thyme was a senior in college when you left. She volunteered at the library uptown. Sitting next to the check-out computers, asking you what you were getting. Lingering by the fireplace, chatting about whatever book you were reading. The armchairs, your computer, and notebooks scattered everywhere. You spent your weekends there when you had to catch up on homework, and you were bad it. And she always helped. After a while, she stopped helping out at the library and got a job at the Florence Tower gift shop, which you didn’t mind because you liked wandering the tower with him. Even though she was older than you, you liked talking to her and helping her out at her job. She never minded. <br/>	Your leg bounces up and down, your foot tapping quickly. Why can’t you get yourself to do anything? It’s deep anxiety in your gut, and you shake, looking at the floor. It’s been years. You feel like you can’t move or breath, it’s leaving you frozen in place. Slowly you calm your breathing, and your leg slows along with it. You sigh and look up at the wall. There’s a painting of the city from the 50s when Florence Tower was seemingly a million feet tall and everything else looked tiny. You feel like a tiny building here, sitting small on a bench. Like you don’t really matter. She doesn’t have to know you were here, she doesn’t really care. You get up and take another deep breath. The lobby is quite now that the tour groups have gone upstairs, and you take just a second to look around at the familiar, unchanging place. You admire it, for a second and then you look into the gift shop, through the window. Just for a second. And she turns and looks straight at you. </p><p>Goddamn. </p><p>You just sink to the floor and stare at your feet, the anxiety crippling you. Making your heart pound and your head rush and her eyes stick in your head. It feels like an hour like everything is moving so slowly. Until you look up and she’s standing there smiling a bit, with a worried look in her eyes. You weakly grin and attempt to stand up, but for some reason, you can’t move your legs. She just walks over and sits down in front of you. <br/>“Hey, Mikey.” <br/>It hurts for some reason. To hear your name said out loud, so casually. Like it’s normal. She sits, her legs crossed, normal blue jeans hug her thighs. You stare blankly at her. She smiles back. It’s weird, to see her close and real and there. She doesn’t feel real. <br/>	“Mikey?” <br/>You blink and breathe and look at her seriously. You pay attention and you feel the anxiety in your gut and you shove it down just a bit. <br/>	“Hey.” <br/>There’s a tingly numbness in your legs, which are crumpled beneath you. Slowly you move and let the stinging feeling come back into your muscles. <br/>	“How have you been?” <br/>Couldn’t she ignore it, and move on, and pretend nothing happened. That it’s just normal now. But it isn’t. She looks so different, and so do you, you guess. You grew up too, you realize. You grew up. </p><p>	Main main main main. Menu. Menu. Menu. </p><p>Thyme reaches out to take your hand comfortingly, you realize your eyes are wet. You withdraw your hand away from her reach and stand up, slowly. She gets up after you. <br/>“I’ve been. Okay.”<br/>You blink away the tears that swelled in your eyes, and try to smile as best you can. She looks at you with care, attention, purpose. How can a look look so intentional? She takes up space, and with her eyes on you, that means you do too. Your skin crawls. <br/>	“Mikey, I-” <br/>The intention fades, you can tell her mouth is as dry as yours. Both of you are unsure of what to say, even though you called her last night. Even though you felt the happiness in her voice on the streets in the cold, you felt her close to you. You were only in the same city. It was less scary. Now you’re in the same room. The same space and you want to run away from it. She swallows and starts again. <br/>	“I worried about you.” <br/>Guilt. It settles under your stomach, and you look at the floor away from her intention. She worried. This was the problem. With coming back. The problem with seeing everyone again. Everyone being the few. The few, few people that remember you. That care enough to recognize you. The problem is they want to talk to you, hear your voice, see your face. They want to know. Talk, catch up. Tell you that they were worried. Worried. About you. They thought about you. And that made your headache, and that was the problem. <br/>	“Okay?” </p><p>“Okay. That’s not a response.” </p><p>“Shut up.” <br/>Thyme stares at you. With intention. Confusion. But intention. You don’t know what to say, and you look away again. Because she looks worried. And you don’t want her to worry. You’ve been fine. You’ve been okay. You’ve been? You’ve been. <br/>	“Sorry, I-” <br/>	“No, I’m sorry. It’s just loud in here.” <br/>The silence had settled under the rug a long time ago and when you close your mouth it comes back in full force. Her eyebrows furrow, but she won’t take her eyes off of you. And you feel noticed. For the first time in a while. <br/>	“How have you been?” <br/>The words feel stiff in your mouth and you want to throw up. She just looks at you without response for a few long seconds. <br/>	“I have to go back to work, but we should go out to dinner or something.” <br/>She says it like it’s normal, almost. With an edge of worry. But you do want to see her, you guess. You want to exist in the same space, not just in the same city. You miss her. You do. So you nod and gulp, she smiles. She smiles at you with love and squeezes your hand. <br/>“I’ll text you?”<br/>You just nod again. You don’t want to speak, it’s too much work.</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. 3:34pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Wasting time p2</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She sends you a text an hour later, your sitting in the grass. It’s a courtyard, strangely settled between some skyscrapers. Your music was paused, and you had been enjoying the strange silence of this time. The noise was settled in the back of your head, and you had just walked for a while. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and for just a second, you don’t want to pick it up. You want to keep staring at the cars passing, and the people. You want to stay in the moment for as long as you can, but then that second passes and you get your phone. It’s her. Thyme. Written on the screen. Bright, making your eyes ache. The cloudy day, lacking of rain, made your eyes adjust to the dimness. So you turn your phone light to as low as it can go, and open your phone to answer. I’m free tonight if you want to catch up. You stare at it and think. You do want to catch up. Well, maybe avoid the catching up part. And focus on seeing her. Focus on the small talk, that will awkwardly sit beneath your skin. You could focus on the good times, share memories. Even just sit in silence and eat your food. You just don’t want to talk. You don’t want to share, and admit, and be open. You want to focus on something else. <br/>	“Just go see her.”<br/>So you type away a text, and you stare at it and delete it. And do that about ten times until you send back okay and wait for her to respond. It’s chilly, and it looks like dusk. It’s around 3 pm. The sky is cloudy. There’s a fog in your brain. You let out a sigh and watch the cold breathe turn into smoke and disappear into the mist that lays close to the sidewalks here. The sun is slipping away too fast and your head hurts. <br/>What now?<br/>	“What now?”<br/>Shut up. <br/>	“What now?” <br/>Answer the text on your phone, go back to your hotel to find something deep in your suitcase that won’t smell like rain and sadness, stare at your flat curls in the mirror, wander around finding the restaurant Thyme will invite you too, awkwardly sit and chat and ponder and pick at your food, cry as you walk home, stay up all night because of the humming. That’s what. <br/>	“What then?”<br/>Who knows? Who even cares. Put it off. Put it off until you forget why you’re here or what your name is. It isn’t that hard to forget. Forget what it feels like to feel until you turn into the dusky sky, and people don’t worry because they don’t remember you. Wander until you pass out in the park until you can’t look away from the sky. Until your gone. Just a person people pass by and don’t notice. You just want to exist without existing. <br/>	You realize you’ve been staring at the text, blurry as your eyes focus on what's in your head. You blink, and blink, and blink until the shapes become legible in your mind. It still takes five read-throughs for your brain to turn the letters into thoughts. You have to close your eyes to think. I’ll meet you at that Italian place on Main, does 7 sound good? It’s called Francisco's, you haven’t been there since… Well, you don’t remember. As you stare at the back of your eyelids, you feel the phone buzz in your hands. It’ll be 7, you’ll just say it doesn’t matter. And you chuckle a bit. A reminder. It’s a reminder she knows you. And no one has known you in so long. You say okay. You always say okay. You always say it doesn’t matter. Because nothing really matters to you. You just drift along. Someone remembers you. They don’t pass you, they know your name. And for some reason, you don’t hate it. You want to be seen. At least by a few people. Because they’re home. And you just want to be home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. 4:46pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Argument with yourself</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’re sick of hearing about yourself wandering. You’re sick of watching yourself go place to place, unimportantly thinking and spiraling. So you go to your hotel room. You walk around, it’s boring and normal. Nothing interesting happens, you’re just braindead. Finding your way back. <br/>	Your hotel room is cold. The heater under the window isn’t on. You discard your backpack on the bed, claw at your wet shoelaces before giving up, and shrug your jacket off. It takes a minute of fiddling before you turn your heating on, and hot air blasts your face. You sigh into the heat, before your face starts to burn and you have to reset the machine. Finally, you strip off your shoes and socks and lie down on the bed. The heater working, calmingly heating the air with a cozy scent. You breathe. You just breathe. <br/>	“You can’t ignore me forever.” <br/>It’s a hum that goes down your spin and makes your body shiver and you want to scream. You just want to be left alone. <br/>“I just wanted to be left alone, and now. I don’t even know if it’s worth it! If it’s worth it to see everyone, and if it’s worth the train rides and the rain and the smoke and the coffee. If any of it is worth it because I can’t even feel like I’m in the moment or happy. Because you’re humming, just freaking humming in my head making me go insane and I just! I wanted to feel real. Because I haven’t felt real since I moved and since I moved in with Jamie. And now I just want to go back to my stupid apartment and make soup and be in the silence of fakeness because even if I get to see the people that make me feel real and remember the good times here, you are there. Telling me how not real it is and bugging me and driving me insane and I really really don’t want to be insane right now.”<br/>The humming stays. You’re crying. Just slightly. Just a few streams of cold wet salt rolling down your cheeks. Your cheeks are red and warm because they’re been exposed to the cold rainy air all day. And you just want to fall asleep. You want to fall asleep and not go to dinner with Thyme. And wake up in your apartment. Because you just want to be alone and for It to leave you. Because you left here for a reason. And you fixed your problem. And it just sucks. <br/>“Set up Main Menu.”  <br/>Okay.<br/>	“Okay?” <br/>Your eyes feel heavy, your body stills and you start to panic a little. You reach for your phone, quickly, before your eyes close, you set an alarm for 6:30 pm. No, 6:15 pm. You’ll probably want to shower and the train will be late and, oh. Oh. Okay. </p><p>Your phone hits the ground by your bed and you black out.</p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Crimson (where time stops and memory takes over pm)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>it's crimson</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So.” <br/>“Yeah? So what.”<br/>“So, you’re finally here.”<br/>“I guess.”  <br/>	“It’s taken long enough.”<br/>“What do you mean?”<br/>	“Oh, I never mean anything, I mean what you want me to mean.”<br/>“I don’t want you.” <br/>“Oh sure. But you can’t really get rid of me huh?”<br/>“I don’t even know who you are.”<br/>You stop and actually look around. You can’t see anything. It’s not black or white, it’s not plain or full, it’s just empty. You’ve never seen anything so empty. You can’t process it and you have to close your eyes so you see the backs of your eyelids. <br/>	“Well, I don’t know either.”<br/>		“You know nothing apparently, why are you even here?”<br/>“I don’t really think you want to know.”<br/>But you do. You want nothing more than to know why you have this voice. Why you're dreaming the weirdest dream and why you can’t just wake up and go see Thyme. <br/>	“Set up the main menu.” <br/>No. You really don’t want to. You don’t even know what that means. You don’t care though. So you nod your head, your eyes stay closed and you take a deep breath. And you can’t let it out. It’s stuck in your ribs. You’re choking, and you open your eyes and it’s not empty anymore. It’s red, and the walls seem so close and you want to open your eyes and be awake, but you’re just staring at the crimson that is melting your brain.</p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. 6:15pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You wake up</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You gasp. There’s a real ceiling. And you sit up and you look around and it’s all real. You think. The alarm is blaring, and you swear your ringer isn’t always that loud. It felt like, five minutes tops? But you see that it’s time to get ready to have dinner with Thyme. Your body hurts. It just hurts. So you get up and go to the hotel bathroom. <br/>	It’s clean, you’ve barely used it. The cleaning lady has given you new white towels and washcloths, new little soaps and shampoos. You look at the mirror, it has so many lights. For make-up you assume, but it just makes your skin seem so pale and washed out and white. And your eyes look bright but somehow empty. Slowly you take your clothes off, your shirt first. It lands on the floor somewhere, and you look back into the mirror. You don’t really know yourself. You avoid looking, and seeing, and feeling. You avoid your body, covered in clothes. It feels wrong and foreign so you just strip your other clothes off and look away from the mirror. You get into the shower and turn the water on. It’s freezing cold before it turns hot. You sigh into it and let it relax your muscles. Your eyes close for a moment, but you flinch as your brain greets you with that crimson. The color that makes your muscles tense and your body ache more. <br/>	You dig through your suitcase, trying to find something other than a t-shirt and jeans to wear out. Thyme doesn’t care what you look like, and you know that, but you want to try. You find a shirt that isn’t yours, a pattern you can’t discern. It’s Jamie’s. It smells like him. It crumples in your hand as you grab it and a pair of pants, you make your way back to the bathroom. It’s quiet. Dead quite. You tug your clothes on, your nails digging into your skin accidentally, sharp uneven edges from chewing them. You don’t even remember chewing them. Finally, when most of your skin is covered, you look up at the mirror. Still pale, but you look a little bit more human. Your hair is wet, curls that drip water that looks pure black. Eyes, deeply set in your skull, tired. You look so tired. The shirt hurts your eyes a bit, it’s bright reds and yellows, with green that might be leaves? If your eyes could just see. You hang up your towel and turn the light off on your way out.<br/>	Time to leave. Time for shoes and, crap you forgot to brush your teeth. So you dig around in your backpack till you find a tin of breath mints. You take one out, it’s not wet but it looks darker than before. It sits behind your cheek, minty freshness making your brain go numb for a second. You look in the mirror one last time, rub your front teeth with your sleeve, and you slip your wallet in your back pocket, closing the door on the way out. <br/>	The door slams, your brain blacks out for another second, red red red. </p><p>It’s so Red. It’s too Red. It’s- </p><p>	Down the elevator and looking for directions on your phone. Please behave for just a few hours, please leave me alone. Your thoughts get lost before you think them.</p><p>	Please.</p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. 7:00pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Awkward Italian dinner</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The restaurant is oddly quiet for a weekend. You stand in the doorway, a few people are being helped to their tables. Tables, and people, and waiters, and children. Families. You can see them, and you know that they have to be talking but you hear nothing. Just blank quiet air. It makes you feel a bit dizzy. <br/>	“Can I help you, sir?” <br/>Your eyes refocus and you see a server smiling at you. <br/>	“Oh, I’m just waiting for someone.” <br/>Somehow you say it like it’s normal like you’re just a regular person. You sound like an adult, maybe it’s Jamie’s shirt. The server just nods and goes back to doing something. There’s faint music you notice, something attempting to set an Italian mood. What even is an Italian mood? Right now it’s anxiety building in your chest, your back a bit too straight, not slumped, it’s waiting and waiting and waiting. And you feel like a fraud in your colorful shirt, with your fake smiles.  <br/>Waiting, waiting, waiting. <br/>It feels like it’s been too long. You realize that it hasn’t when you reach for your phone and see that it’s only 7:03 pm. That she’s just a few minutes late. You could walk out right now. You could go back to your hotel, you could cram your stupid hoodies and jeans into your suitcase and you could leave. But then she’d sit here, in freaking Francisco's, waiting. And she’d be worried. And she’d call you a hundred times. And you’d be lying in the middle of your living room, alone, doing nothing. <br/>	“Hey,” <br/>You don’t jump. You just turn around to see her standing by the doorway, just a few feet away from you. It’s sad, you think. Just hovering in the doorway looking at each other. <br/>	“Hey.” <br/>Thyme smiles. It’s simple. It’s normal. Slowly, she walks over and stands in front of you. <br/>	“Wanna get a table?”<br/>Yeah, you should. You should have. Not so adult after all. <br/>	By the time you both are sitting down, you realize you haven’t said anything. Thyme looks at her menu, you stare at the glass of water the waiter gave you. What should you say? The best option was to go through this whole evening silently, so she doesn’t have to pick a fight or ask questions. Avoid it. Avoid it. Avoid it. <br/>	“I haven’t been here in ages, their menu looks brand new.” <br/>She’s looking, confused, at the menu, tapping her fingers against the laminated paper. <br/>	“Yeah, neither have I.”<br/>It was meant as a joke, but her hand stills and she looks at you. You feel sick to your stomach. She sighs, and the tapping begins again. Her black nails softly tap until you realize you can’t hear anything else. Just the tapping. <br/>	“Mikey?” <br/>You gulp, but your throat feels dry, so you drink your water. <br/>	“Sorry.”<br/>It sounds pathetic. You look at her, the worry in her eyes. There’s history, memories, your throat feels even dyer. But you don’t look away. She closes her eyes and sighs. <br/>	“Hey, what can I get y’all today?” <br/>Silence.<br/>“We got a new appetizers menu that I can get you started with. Anything for a drink besides your water?” <br/>You look at the table like an idiot. Thyme smiles and asks for iced tea and some breadsticks. The waiter smiles back and drifts away. <br/>	“Just ask her.” <br/>You flinch, and Thyme looks at you confused. Your spine aches, you don’t do anything to sit up straighter. You don’t want to ask her. But she’ll bring it up, and it’ll happen. And you should just get it over with. You don’t want to. <br/>	“Just.” <br/>You pause, you take a deep breath. <br/>	“Say it already.” <br/>Thyme sighs. She squeezes her eyes closed again, her whole body looks tense. She doesn’t say anything. You look at the table again. <br/>	“How have you been?”<br/>You don’t want to answer that. The truth shouldn’t be shared over breadsticks that have appeared on your table. Lying just hurts. So you shrug and stuff a breadstick in your mouth. <br/>	“How have you been?”<br/>Mouth full, she looks at you. Her hair is longer than you remember, dyed a deep black. Eyes dart around the room, she just looks at you longer.<br/>	“Mikey,” <br/>Her tone hurts you. Like it did at Florance Tower. You gulp. <br/>	“I’m fine, okay?” <br/>It’s not true, yet it’s not untrue. You are “fine”. In a way. In the way you’re alive. You are, aren’t you? She just looks at her glass of water, and eats a breadstick.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. 8:02pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Going home, calling him</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You had picked at your food for fifteen minutes. Thyme had offered to pay, so you accepted. She hugged you goodbye, you had lingered outside, and then she got herself a cab and said goodnight. It was weird. Watching the cab pull away from the curb, and into the city. It was 8 pm, you assumed. So you look at your phone. 8:02pm. <br/>For twenty minutes you stand outside Fransisco’s. Till it’s 8:22 pm. It’s almost as if the time doesn’t pass, like you paused and the world flew by. But you saw all the cars pass, and the people pass. You see it all. But it’s all faint. Faded. Grey. Black and white. Movements. <br/>	So at 8:22 pm, you walk home. Home. For a while, you forget it all. The hotel room, the shirt you’re wearing. You stare at your feet, the puddles settling into the sidewalk. The way the light casts colors on the pavement that leave the world looking patchy and bright. It’s almost normal. There’s something in the air. Like the world knows. It’s peaceful, it feels peaceful.<br/>Neon signs flicker around you. The streetlights seem so bright. Your eyes blur the lights, turning them into streaks of color. Despite the world around you, you’re lost inside your head. Peaceful. It’s mindless. Because after all, you know your way. The rhythm of your feet walking. It’s like every night. The warmth that hits your face as you push the door to the apartment building open. <br/>You don’t realize it till you’re there again, like you were yesterday. Standing there. </p><p>1112</p><p>Your ribs ache. It’s so weird, you think. To go from having dinner with Thyme to awkwardly standing staring at your front door. It’s like no matter what you do, you end up back here stuck in the past. <br/>	So you take your phone out of your back pocket and you call Jamie. It’s weird how careless you do it, without thinking you feel the cold screen of your phone against your cheek and your breath seems incredibly loud. It rings, and you just stare at the doorknob. <br/>	“Mikey?”<br/>		You’re already talking over his voice.<br/>	“Do you miss my soup?”<br/>		There’s a pause.<br/>	“Mikey, what’s wrong?”<br/>		It catches you a bit off guard and your gaze falters from the door to the floor.<br/>“I’m standing in front of my old apartment, the one I grew up in, and I can’t stop wondering if you miss my soup.”  <br/>	Jamie stays quiet for a minute, thinking maybe, or maybe just confused. <br/>“Why?”<br/>	Valid question, you guess. <br/>“My ribs hurt.” <br/>	He sighs. <br/>“When are you coming home?”<br/>	You pause. He called it home. Is that the answer you wanted? You don’t know. <br/>“Goodnight.”	<br/>And you hang up. You put your phone back in your pocket, and you sigh. His<br/>voice was raspy in your ear. You did miss him. You wander back to the elevator, not looking back at your apartment. Or what was your apartment? What was.</p>
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<a name="section0019"><h2>19. 9:27 am, Monday, November/14th/2019</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>another day with hot chocolate</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was weird, the feeling of waking up in the same clothes you wore the day before. The blankets barely covering you. Like you had just passed out upon contact with the bed, which you had. Day three, you realize as you look at the clock that says 9:27 am. What’s the plan for today? You sit up, the bed still made beneath you. It’s weirdly dull, you blink. It’s weird, the room looks the same as you found it last night. But you barely remember last night. Only a faint memory, the way the clothes were scattered around the hotel reminded you. <br/>You get out of bed. Look at yourself in the mirror. The shirt you had on yesterday is wrinkly, and it is really too bright. So you unbutton it to find a t-shirt that’s tangled in your suitcase. You don’t bother to change your pants, or brush your teeth. <br/>The door closes behind you, leaving your messy hotel room empty, and your key card in your back pocket. When you leave the elevator, you realize that your brain dozed off. The hotel is quiet. You find your way to the breakfast bar, a few sad cereals and a toaster. A bagel or two are left. The stack of styrofoam bowls is seemingly untouched, so you grab on.<br/>Froot Loops that taste a bit off, everything is always a bit off now you guess. You sigh into the warm air that fogs up your vision. A few people linger, waiting for toast, or eating yogurt. <br/>You leave the hotel. In the same clothes as the day before. It’s colder than it had been, you shove your hands into your pockets, but it doesn’t really help. Florence Flavors is only a fifteen-minute walk west from the hotel, and it wouldn’t be any faster by train, so you hold your arms tight to your body to hold in the heat and start walking. <br/>It starts to rain. Hot and fast. It’ll rain all day, you can feel it. Maybe you should’ve taken the train. There were weeks around here where it would rain constantly, it always made you wonder what oceans were dry. Which oceans had given all their water to this city’s streets? An ocean in the sky, that leads to a river going down your back, leaving your shirt wet and your hair dripping. You find the coffee shop, as easy as always, and you slip inside. Standing, soaking wet, on the doormat. <br/>It’s only 10:20 am. Earlier than usual. It's busier, a few people wait in line. The morning rush is dying down, it feels cramped. You feel shoved into the space, so you look at the floor and take a deep breath in. Then out. Then everything feels less crammed in. You wait. You listen to the chatter, the talking, the keyboard clicks, the humming that seemingly just started in your head. <br/>“Back at it again, huh?” <br/>You barely realized you had moved forward, till you’re standing there. They smile at you. <br/>	“Can’t get enough hot chocolate, can you?”<br/>You smile back. Without thinking. It’s weird. You blink a few times and find the nametag on their shirt. Kara.<br/>	“I guess not.” <br/>They punch it into their register, almost like you’re a regular. Like they know you. Maybe they know you better than anyone else. Maybe you are really just a kid, soaking wet, who drinks hot chocolate. <br/>“I like your shirt.” <br/>It reminds you that you’re wearing Jamie’s shirt, colorful. So colorful. It makes you feel warmer. But when you look down, you realize you aren’t. Just the t-shirt you changed into earlier. It has a faded band name on it, it’s barely legible. You look at them, noticing their headscarf is a lavender today. Not blue. <br/>	“Oh, thanks.” <br/>Now you’re thinking about Jamie. Maybe you should text him. You don’t know.<br/>	“Will the hot chocolate be it?”<br/>You just softly nod, you feel very tired all a sudden. Like you might fall apart. You pay without thinking, lost in the humming. And you let the chair hold you again, not feeling so weak. They appear with your hot chocolate, like yesterday. <br/>	“So, have you decided yet?” <br/>Decided what? You take the hot chocolate. They perch on the table in front of you. <br/>	“What?<br/>They smile, and you notice they’re holding a stack of papers in their hands.<br/>	“Visiting.” <br/>It’s in your head. You groan and hit your head with your hand, without thinking. They look at you a bit worried. <br/>	“Sorry, yeah. Uh.” It stays in the air for a moment. Two moments. “No, I haven’t decided.” <br/>They nod and start shuffling through the papers. You look at them as you sip your hot chocolate. They seem to be around your age, maybe younger. The twinkle in their eye shows you that they’ve never been heartbroken, or maybe they’re just good at healing. It’s odd how they smile at their work, scribbling notes on the papers, their eyes darting around reading things. <br/>“Why not?”<br/>They’re so curious, and you don’t know why. There isn’t a reason to be interested in you. You’re just a kid who gets hot chocolate. There’s nothing special about you. <br/>Just for a second, your eyes blank out. It’s white and hazy and your head feels lighter than the air around you. The humming sounds like screaming as it crawls up your back and into your ribs.<br/>“I guess there’s a voice in my head telling me one thing, and a different voice telling me something else.”<br/>They look up at you, something in their golden-green eyes tells you they understand. They understand? <br/>“I’m Kara by the way,” <br/>You laugh a little bit. Just a small laugh deep in your ribcage. Quiet, silent. The rise and fall of your chest. They look at you confused.<br/>	“I know, it’s on your nametag.” <br/>They look down at their nametag and start to laugh a little bit too. It’s nice and quiet. <br/>	“And you’re Mikey.” <br/>It’s supposed to be a question? But it’s not. It just lingers in the air as a statement. <br/>	“Yeah.” <br/>And that’s all that you can say for the next half an hour. You just sip your hot chocolate in silence. Kara flips through papers, scribbling away. Sometimes a customer will come through and they’ll dart up to help them. It’s 10:15 am, you shove your phone back in your pocket as Kara returns to their perch. <br/>	“You work alone?” <br/>Kara looks up at you, surprised to hear you talk more. They smile. <br/>	“Yeah, I mean my manager is in the back but. It’s just me.” <br/>They gaze down past the papers to their feet. You can’t make out what shoes they're wearing, it’s too far away and too blurry. You squint, but that just makes your head start to hurt. Closing your eyes doesn’t help, it’s just pain. <br/>	“You need to leave.” <br/>Your head hurts so bad, it makes you nauseous. Cold spiraling thoughts trail down your backbone, the voice is drilling into you and you wanna throw up. Your eyes feel heavy, your body stills. Somehow your cup ends up on the table next to Kara, they look up at you confused. You seem wombly like you could fall over at any time. There’s not enough time. <br/>	“I have to go, sorry.” <br/>It comes out lamely, and you hit your leg for it. Their face is just worry. This always happens.<br/>	“I’ll see you tomorrow.” <br/>A promise you blurt out without thinking, before walking quickly to the door and   s t u m b l i n g into the   <br/>                   cold <br/>                              morning <br/>                                                    air.</p>
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<a name="section0020"><h2>20. 10:30am</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>you black out again</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Leave me alone.” <br/>You whisper it under your breath so no one hears. The sidewalk is cold against your jeans, you shiver. People looked at you as they passed, just a glance. You had managed to get a few blocks down before your legs gave out. It had felt so bad, and you felt still. It was like last time. You felt so tired. <br/>	“You don’t get to do this to me again.” <br/>Last time. Your body felt traumatized. Hurt and scared. Your mind kept blacking out to the crimson. The crimson that made you feel like throwing up again. It hurt your brain. Your breath felt like it had been ripped away from you. You were trying to fight back. Don’t close your eyes, don’t let it happen again.<br/>	“You aren’t in control.” <br/>The voice sent a searing pain down your spine again. This couldn’t be real. Everything around you has to be a dream, you have to wake up. It has to be over, this is too much. You want to go home. There is nothing in your body, you try to stand up but you can’t<br/>	“You don’t know what home is anymore. Just close your eyes and you’ll go back.” <br/>It feels so nice to give up and relax, lay against the wall. Close your eyes. Drift away.	<br/>	“Promise me. Please bring me home.” <br/>And it goes blank.</p>
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<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Periwinkle (where time stops and memory takes over am)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>it's periwinkle</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was empty again. Like before. Your body tenses, although you can’t see it. You can’t see anything. You’ve never seen anything so empty. You close your eyes so you see the backs of your eyelids. So you don’t have to process it, because it’s just as impossible to process. You hate it. But you don’t want to leave. You want to lay in the empty air, in the unknowable empty heat, you want to fall asleep again. <br/>	“Open your eyes.” <br/>You don’t. <br/>	“Take a deep breath in.”<br/>You resist. Because last time it got stuck in your ribs and in your lungs and in the small of your back. Last time you felt full to the brim with oxygen that you needed to let out. You felt so alive and so crushingly not. But you can’t cover your mouth with your hands forever, and you have to. You have to give in. <br/>	Breathe in.<br/>	Breathe out.<br/>	Breathe in.<br/>	Breathe out.<br/>Lungs expanding, and collapsing. Over and over. A pace that follows the beat of your heart. Without thinking, you open your eyes. You want to process it. You want to feel the pure air coating your insides and you want to see and experience. It feels nice. It feels good. It feels</p><p>	Periwinkle.</p><p>It’s a weird color, as it slowly kisses your brain with comfort. It’s light and airy, you want to breathe it in too. You want the color to caress your aching body with its soft touch. It’s purple, or blue. Or both. It’s soft and gentle against your eyes. It makes you feel foggy and homesick, nostalgic. Tired. It makes you so tired. <br/>	“You don’t have to fear me.” <br/>The deep humming tone of their voice, whispering in the back of your brain, it’s not scary. It’s not horrifying or annoying or life threatening or lonely. It sounds like home. Like all the rainy nights you spent eating french fries or watching the black sky. All the times you felt truly alone and truly loved and truly alive. Because home was that voice. Home meant this burden. This thing telling you want to do and say and how to be. And it felt nice. Nice that someone, something had your back. Something was taking care of you. Making you see the endless periwinkle. The periwinkle that kissed your shoulder and nuzzled it’s head in the crook of your neck. The periwinkle that closed around you, in and out. Just letting you breathe. Thump thump. In and out. Slowly until you hear your mother’s olds records start to play. Until the music turns to humming. And you feel okay. You feel weirdly, oddly, not unwantedly, okay.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. 11:47 am</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lunch with Thyme</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s wet. Your clothes, your hair, your skin, the pavement you are sitting on. The sky too. It’s downpouring. So much for the weird lack of rain. The lack of umbrellas and peaceful sunshine that drifted through the clouds. You are soaking wet. Squish in your shoes. It takes you a moment, and too much effort, to stand up. You feel out of breath. Even though it was nice, you feel like a wreck now. It makes you wish you could fall back into the music and the periwinkle and the feeling of home. Your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Jamie. <br/>	Hey, how are you doing? Call me if you can.<br/>It almost sounds like something your mom would’ve said. She never texted though. Just wrote letters and shoved them in the pockets of your jeans when she folded them and into your backpack before school. Absentmindedly your fingers claw into your wet jean pocket, finding nothing. Which isn’t a surprise. But it is still a disappointment. <br/>	“She’s not home anymore.”<br/>Crismon clouds your vision. Stop messing with your brain. You beg for the crimson to go away. The humming stays. You try to think but it seems harder. Ringing replaces the humming.<br/>Click.<br/>	“You decided to call?”<br/>Smokey. Deep. Nostalgic. <br/>	“I’m sorry about last night.” <br/>You could hear his acceptance in the silence. He didn’t always have to say something for you to understand. <br/>	“Do your ribs feel better?<br/>When he mentions it, your ribs start to scream. Home. You want home. It’s being ripped from your ribs. You want to curl into a ball on the sidewalk. <br/>	“Yes.” <br/>He sighs like normal. <br/>	“Mikey, you gotta tell me when you’re getting home. I just,” <br/>He sounded lost. He never sounds lost. It makes you feel guilty. It makes you wanna throw up.<br/>“I just need to know that you’re okay. You can’t get up and leave like that. You just<br/>exist without thinking about how I’ll feel? That’s so unfair. I took you in, and you just left.<br/>I thought…” <br/>His voice trails off. <br/>	“I said I’m sorry.” <br/>It is unfair. You know that. It makes your stomach feel worse. You don't want to hang up again. <br/>	“What are you looking for?”<br/>The question catches you off guard. <br/>“Closure, peace, what is it? And is it worth it?” <br/>He should leave you alone. 	<br/>“You’re not my therapist, let me live. I gotta go now, bye.” <br/>You hang up before he can stop you. You hate yourself. You stare at the phone screen, but you don’t see it. It’s black in your brain, foggy, cloudy. You feel faint. The problem with hanging up, the problem with lying that you have to go, is that it makes you feel more pointless. Standing on the concrete. <br/>	Florance Tower is quiet, empty at this time. The ground level has a door leading into the coffee shop, a large gift shop, and a small sub sandwich chain. There are a few tables and chairs in the lobby, a pattern on the floor that looks shiny but that’s all you can tell. You used to be able to see it all better. It’s big and empty. It feels safe in a weird way. In the air, you feel a calmness, the emptiness. It’s welcoming. It’s nice to be alone. It’s nice to be empty. <br/>	“We don’t do tours on weekdays anymore.” <br/>The tone is different from the disappointment, the unreleased anger, and the silence. It’s lighthearted. It feels like the unspoken feeling in a hug goodnight or a kiss on the cheek. <br/>	“Not even school-groups?” <br/>She shrugs. It’s funny to see her now, she’s not any taller but she looks older. Somehow you can see her better here than you did in Fransisco’s, maybe its the lighting. The blonde roots of her hair coming in, the ache that still traces the hollows of her cheeks. She’s pretty, that hasn’t changed. <br/>“Sorry about last night.” <br/>It comes out easy, you’ve said it before today. You wonder why you’re talking like this. Like you’re okay. It doesn’t feel like a lie, you’re being honest. Maybe that’s just a weird adult feeling. One you haven’t experienced before. <br/>	“Oh, well I had fun.” <br/>Silence. It doesn’t sting, you almost laugh. It gets caught in your ribs and you cough instead. She looks you up and down, shakes her head slightly, and smiles at you. <br/>	“You’re buying me lunch today though.” <br/>You laugh at that. <br/>	“Okay.”</p><p>	She ordered some strange mixture of olives, mayonnaise, and spinach on french bread and you mindlessly paid. You assumed you’d sit on at a table in silence, but instead, you find yourself sitting on the floor of the gift shop, eating half a mayonnaise covered sandwich with the olives and spinach picked off. Thyme sat on the counter writing on a postcard absentmindedly, her sandwich long gone. 	<br/>	“So let’s play a game.” <br/>It’s weird to hear her say it, not because she never did this. She used to every day in the shop while you helped organize trinkets for her, or when she’d sit on your living room floor with him, and your sister. She knew how to waste time with truth or dare. You never minded. It was weird because she looked like an adult. Because she was. She graduated college, she was a grown-up.<br/>	“Okay?”<br/>The postcard looks something like a sunset over the city. You can make out yellows and oranges and then the nostalgic city lights in the skyline. <br/>	“We come up with fake lives that the other has been living. Like I could say, you secretly<br/>fell in love with a hot french boy you were pen pals with so you saved up and flew away to Paris to live a life of romance and now after all these years you came back to see your loved ones because he was having an affair and you couldn’t bear Paris anymore.” <br/>You look at her confused, with a smile only half real. She smiles back and then continues writing on the postcard, for a reason you can’t figure out. <br/>	“So I could say, you dropped out of community college because you knew your life was <br/>bigger than just an English degree and hopeless one-night-stands, and got accepted to a big-time school for journalism and was number one in your class only to come back <br/>home to the security of a job at a crumbling old tower because you accidentally slept <br/>with the CEO of the New York Times and couldn’t bear to work there even though it was your dream job.” <br/>Without skipping a beat: <br/>	“You know I hate journalism.” <br/>You laugh. She laughs too. <br/>	“Okay, so the second part of the game is that you correct the other person’s story. For <br/>example, I graduated from community college with a four year English degree and dated<br/>the same guy the entire time. We broke up because my new job as head of merchandise<br/>took up too much time.” <br/>She doesn’t look sad, she just writes away, her voice pausing when she has to think of spelling a word. You chew your food quietly. <br/>	“Your turn.” <br/>You hesitate. <br/>	“I ran away from home after my mom died and became homeless just to end up feeding	<br/>soup to a guy I met at a gay club who took me in.” <br/>Thyme looked at you as you spoke, her hand pausing its writing. You wait for her response, balling up the paper wrapping of the sandwich and squeezing it into a tighter and tighter ball as the silence drags on.<br/>	“Why are you back?”<br/>Her soft gentle voice mixes with deep and monotone, your whole body flinches as the humming peirces your brain. Thyme looks at you, concern clouding her eyes.<br/>	“People have to stop asking that.” <br/>You try to laugh, you try to be normal, but your hand claws at the back of your neck. Conviced that theirs a chip implanted, tearing to get the humming out. You attempt to say something, something better than what you said to Jamie, something that makes sense.<br/>	“Mikey?”<br/>She’s put down the postcard, leaning fowards, her elbows on her knees, as she peers at you from the counter. You take a deep breath in. <br/>	“I was bored.” <br/>It lands a few feet away from the trash can, you focus on picking up the ball of sandwich paper and properly throwing it away. You don’t look at her, not as you grab your jacket, and shove your wallet in your pocket. <br/>	“I’m going to-” <br/>Thyme sighs. <br/>	“Not everything has to be interesting. Life is boring. Life is a lot too, and sometimes you<br/>need to live in the boringness of it all. You need to take what you’ve got and just live and<br/>breathe and wait. You can’t just give it up because it’s not what you wanted. You need to <br/>learn how to take it.” <br/>You’re at the doorway, she always has a speech. She always knows how to make you feel guilty. She’s right. You guess. <br/>	“Thanks for lunch.”<br/>Even though you bought it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. 4:15 pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You miss your mom.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The ceiling looks blue. Lighting up with yellow when a clap of thunder hits and your eyes squeeze tighter to block it out. God, how you used to fall to sleep in a mattress five years too old to the sound of the world sobbing. And now you can’t do anything but stare at the blue ceiling, cursing the home you came back too. You’re angry. A feeling like lightning down your spine. It hurts. Fingernails down your back, fire in your throat, a clap of thunder that sends tears out of your eyes and you choke out a sob. <br/>	“What’s wrong?” <br/>Outside is dark and its downpouring. You don’t admire it. It makes your hands itch. <br/>	“I don’t know.”<br/>You’re sitting up, looking out of the window. It’s late afternoon now, the only light coming from the clock on the bedside table. You aren’t hungry for dinner, you aren’t tired enough to continue napping. You aren’t anything. Just a shell of a person. Stuck. <br/>	“What are you going to do about it? <br/>It doesn’t make you mad right now. It doesn’t hum, it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t turn your brain off. It’s talking to you from a distance. Like it’s an old friend. <br/>	“Nothing.” <br/>Nothing. You never do anything. Accept run away. You just watch and wait and sit and linger. Like the smoke in Jamie’s apartment or the music in an old Italian restaurant. <br/>	“Why?”<br/>You never had a reason. A motivation, an explanation. You just did things without thinking of its consequences. You got hurt and you got mad, and you crumbled to the ground over and over again. <br/>	The world outside is dim and eery. Blue waves of rain hitting the pavement and the buildings, leaving the windowpane speckled with water. The noises are all too loud, but you barely acknowledge them. Flash of lightning, the howl of the wind. You just exist with it like it’s family. You know the downpours like you know the freckles on your hands and the way his lips tasted. You know the rain like you know the soft fur of a new labrador retriever. The taste of the rain even though the window isn’t open. Street lights and the lit-up apartments and office buildings make the dreary afternoon look like midnight. It looks tired and aching. The world looks like it’s craving affection that you haven’t given it in so long. You want to scream. You want to sob your eyes out and fall asleep here and wake up back at your apartment. Which apartment, you can’t tell. You don’t know where you belong and it hurts. <br/>	“Why did you come here?” <br/>You don’t know. You want to be able to understand. Why does everyone care so much? Why does it matter that you’re here? Why do people question you like you don’t know what you’re doing? Maybe you don’t. No, you definitely don’t. <br/>	“I don’t know.”<br/>He used to say you knew. That you just had to think. You really don’t want to think.<br/>“You do though.” <br/>How did it know what you knew and didn’t know? Maybe it was lodged inside your brain. Maybe it was snug in your cerebral cortex and maybe you had to cut it out to live. Maybe it crawled around up there and sat through your memories and emotions and fucked them all up. Your brain itched. <br/>	“Do I?” <br/>It came out hurt and confused and your voice barely choked out because you were cramming all your emotions down and you felt like crying. <br/>	“Talk to me about the rain.” <br/>The question doesn’t catch you off guard per se, but it confuses you to hear. You blink away the tear that had started to roll down your cheek. Why did this voice give you pain and send crimson down your organs and also give you space to yearn and cry and hear the music and feel the homesickness? Why was it being kind? <br/>	“Why?”<br/>It’s loud and calming at once. You still feel soaked from earlier today, you still feel the rain running down your face and clinging to your chest. <br/>	“Just do it.” <br/>Is your body shaking? Your hands seem to be but maybe you’re imagining it. Maybe the whole world is shaking. You squeeze your eyes closed and you let the air out of your lungs. The window looks so big. The rain looks so heavy. It’s all so much. <br/>	“It’s blue. It’s heavy. But it’s peaceful. The way it comes and goes without care, it’s<br/>peaceful. Even the thunder and the lightning, even the pelting weight of it. It’s pretty. It feels like the world is letting go and giving in. It needs a break from trying so hard all the time. It tastes like salty tears and it feels like warm kisses when the raindrops dance on your skin. I missed it.” <br/>You feel less shaky, focused on the rain coming down outside. You missed it a lot. But you also hate it. <br/>	“Why?”<br/>It can read your thoughts and it makes you feel sick and you hate it. You hate everything. You realize that. It hits you like a train. You hate yourself. You hate the voice in your head. You hate the people here. You hate the people you left. You hate the rain. You hate the city. You hate the hotel bed. You hate the sky. You hate the ground. You hate everything. And you hate that too. You hate that you are so tired and sad that you are able to hate it all and not see the good parts. But there aren’t any right now. Right now you just hurt. You are so hurt you can’t stop yourself from hating it all. You start to sob. <br/>	“What is causing you this pain?” <br/>The world hurts. In a way that you’ve never hurt. In an earth-shattering, air shaking, soul uttering way. In a lonely and upset and crying and missing your mom type of way. You miss your mom. </p><p>	“I miss my mom.”</p><p>You fucking miss your mom. <br/>You let it be silent for a long time. The air clawing its way into your lungs and colors merging together. You feel like a downpour is happening inside you and you wanna go to sleep and never wake up. <br/>	“Tell me about her.”<br/>The hate is gone. It’s just emptiness and yearning. And you’re sick of crying. It already knows. It’s in your head. You don’t want to talk either. <br/>	“Go away.” <br/>You want to give up in this moment. You want to just exist without meaning. It still hurts. How will telling this stupid voice about your mom help? It won’t. There were notebooks full and countless suicide hotline calls and grief therapy sessions. Jamie had listened to your silence and understood. You really don’t want to talk about it. <br/>	“Tell me about her.” <br/>Purplish blue, bluish purple. It’s creeping into your brain, and you close your eyes for a second. Crimson flashes and you gasp in air to make sure you can. Rain behind your eyes as you stare distantly out of the window. <br/>	“Fine.” <br/>You gulp. Did this count as blackmail? Torture? Just put you out of your misery. </p><p>	Things seemed simple with her. Like the world was spinning and the stars were shining and therefore nothing could be wrong.</p><p>When you were a kid she always pretended things were okay. <br/>Packing homemade lunches and drawing on the walls of your crappy apartment	with you. You remember her washing the walls and repainting them when you started high school. </p><p>	When you were a kid she always pretended things were okay. <br/>		Singing along to old CDs while washing the dishes, letting the sounds of the city  <br/>fill the quiet crappy apartment at night. You remember falling asleep with headphones on to block out the fights when you started junior high.</p><p>	When you were a kid she always pretended things were okay. <br/>		Writing letters for your jean pockets, scribbling poems about the green grass of <br/>her hometown that distracted you from the dread of life. She never stopped that, <br/>she always told you about the stars. Until-</p><p>You’re still looking at the rain coming down, smoke crowding your temporal lobe making your thoughts jumble inside your head.<br/>	“Tell me about her.”<br/>It hurt to think. You had tried to bury it down, move on. Because you can’t go back.</p><p>	When you were a kid she hid her cigarettes under couch cushions. When you were in highschool she left them on the counter. Her and your sister would smoke together in the living room. It always smelled like smoke. You had replaced that memory with Jamie’s carpet. <br/>	“What else did you replace?”<br/>Everything maybe. You hadn’t thought about it. About how making Jamie dinner replaced the homemade dinners. The incense smoke replaced the cigarettes. The late night holiday parties in Jamie’s friends apartments replaced the long drives out of the city to your grandparents. <br/>	“Have I said enough?”<br/>You don’t want to dig deeper. You don’t want to find the root of the problems, or the repressed memories you’ve buried. Some things needed to die six feet under, some things shouldn’t be dug back up. <br/>	“Say more or get out of bed.” <br/>The judgement in the voice makes you want to vomit. It feels like the air is shoving down your throat and pushing against your skin. You crawl out of the hotel bed like you’re being shoved out. Like it rejected your kiss and now you’re scrambling to find your clothes on the floor. Body made small with shame as the air turns cold against your bare skin. You hate it here. You cram your feet into shoes, and your jacket over your shaking arms. The humming sounds like screaming in your ears, making your brain scream along. It’s hard to think as you shove earbuds in your ears and try to shakily turn on music to distract you, the door slamming behind you before you realize-<br/>	“Fuck!” <br/>You forgot your key card on the bedside table.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. 5:53 pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mikey visits Friz's Fries again and talks to a familiar face.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You had given up on getting a new key card till you got back later that night, too focused on the sudden silence of everything. No voice, no humming, no music. The world was quiet. Even in the rain, you decided to walk to Friz’s Fries. The rain could keep you company even if it didn’t make a sound as it hit the pavement. The traffic was quiet, the sky looked like it was resting. It was all too quiet, and your brain made you believe that maybe you were going deaf. <br/>“Hey there! How are you? Sorry for the wait.” <br/>Okay, so not deaf. He’s standing as he did two nights ago, a smile on his face, hoodie sleeves pushed up his arms. His nametag says, Jake. You stand in the doorway, looking at him. Times like this, when it’s all so silent and the world looks fake. When you can’t think, you just want to watch. Observe. You focus on all the things about him you haven’t noticed before. <br/>    Unlike you, his skin is light. Unlike you, his is warm and glows a bit. A bracelet around his wrist, a wrist that’s much thicker than yours. Dimples, a slight smirk on his resting face. Eyes that always look like he’s smiling, but the skin is smooth and he looks young. Broad shoulders, and white teeth, and straight black hair. He looks like his dad.<br/>    “I’m okay, uh,” <br/>Hesitation is in your voice, but you realize you can’t hear your voice. It sounds distant. Jake just smiles at you, like Kara does. A smile that’s formal, polite, but seems sincerer. <br/>    “Is your dad around?”<br/>A strange request from a twenty-something kid in a restaurant that sells french fries. It’s strange because Jake’s eyes squint in response, confused how you knew who his dad was. Honestly, you had no proof. Aside from the smirk, the way this teenager stands, and the tone of his voice that has the slightest hint of a Chinese accent. <br/>    “Yeah, he’s in the back.” <br/>He just stands there, waiting for you to say something. You answer with awkward silence. <br/>    “Yeah, I’ll go get him.” <br/>And he disappears into the back. <br/>    You stand in the middle of the restaurant as you wait. It feels like it’s been half an hour, just looking out the window at the rain. Feeling the white lights wash out your skin, making you look paler than before. It’s weird to think that he has a son, almost as old as you, and part of you feels jealous. You can’t place why. The place was home, and now it feels so deeply empty and unfamiliar. Even though it looks the same. <br/>    “Mikey,” <br/>His voice sounds old. Older than it was when you left. It takes everything in you to look away from the rain pelting down, to lock eyes with the man. You wish you could have just looked at his reflection in the window, and left. But he deserved more than that. <br/>    “You look tired.” <br/>The eyes that met yours didn’t look tired. Just worn out and old. Wrinkled and soft. Grey. Just like Jake’s eyes. He’s shorter than his son, same thick hands, broad shoulders. The accent settles in your head like the buzzing on the train tracks and before you can say anything you feel warm arms embracing you. Normally you would flinch back or wished the moment to be over. But not now. Now you take a deep breath in and hug him back. <br/>    “Yeah.” <br/>It’s all you can think to say. A confirmation. Yes, it is you. Mikey. Standing here in this restaurant, in this city, all these years later. Yes, you are alive. </p><p>    You hear the words, you see the movements, you feel it. Deep into your skin, crawling in your veins, eating at your muscles, swimming into the cracks in your existence till it settles in your bones. In every pour, in every breathe, in every blood cell, and blink, and strand of hair. You feel it. But you can’t think. None of it finds your frontal lobe, lost in the touch and the scent and the noise. It catches in your eardrums, in your throat, in the cones of your eyes before you can make sense of any of it. <br/>    “I got here on Saturday.” <br/>You don’t remember the question asked, but it just came out. Automatic. His eyes are so grey. The feeling in your stomach was deep nostalgia and homesickness, lost in the air around you. You felt sick, nauseous. This was home. <br/>    “Where are you staying?”<br/>His voice was solid though, and you felt Jake’s eyes on you. Piercing, confused, maybe a tad relieved? But why? <br/>    “The uh,” <br/>You weakly gestured, realizing how hungry you were. It took another minute, silence, two pairs of eyes on you until you finished.<br/>“Uh, hotel up on the corner of 3rd.” <br/>He nodded. Qian Fu-Hsi. But everyone called him Friz. You never learned why. Sometimes, after school, you would sit here. Huddled in a corner booth, and you would listen to him tell you stories in Mandarin. He always said he was “teaching you” but your mother would laugh, you would shake your head. You never understood what he said, but he said he liked watching you listen. Over the years his accent wore off, he would speak it less and less. But now, as he watched you and talked. His voice sounded the same, the roughness and the care. You wondered if he told Jake those stories. You were similar ages. <br/>    “I missed you.”  <br/>A man of few words normally. You nodded, avoiding eye contact. Jake laughed a bit, at what you didn’t know. But his laugh felt warm and orange and it made you smile slightly. <br/>    “He talks about you like you were his first son.” <br/>That made your smile fade a bit, meeting Jake’s gaze. But there was only kindness in his eyes. <br/>    “Go get us some fries, for our guest.” <br/>Friz elbowed his son, and he just smiled. Leaving you alone. It’s quiet, and the air is somewhat cool. And you taste the nostalgia on your tongue, and you feel deeply guilty. It wraps around your head and into your brain, curling around your skull. <br/>    “I’m sorry,”<br/>His eyes are so soft, making you feel so safe. Even seeing Thyme didn’t feel like this. Didn’t feel like you were being protected and held tight. Before the voice in your head can shutter down your spine you finish.<br/>    “For leaving. For disappearing, it wasn’t fair.”<br/>But, of course, that doesn’t stop it. The hum. The deep voice. <br/>    “You’re just like your mom.” <br/>There must be something in your eyes, the way you shutter, gulp, blink. Squeeze your eyes closed to make it shut up because Friz looks at you wide-eyed. Concerned. You shake your head and look away, convinced just for a second that maybe he heard the voice too. <br/>    “I forgive you.”<br/>You can tell he means it. That he really does. Relief floods your body softly, his eyes are so warm. Comforting. Home. <br/>    “I always knew you were safe.” <br/>And you were. Even when you felt like you were about to cave in and fall, jump, leap. You were safe, in your own way. <br/>    “And I must thank you,”<br/>For what? Abandoning the only home you had left? For leaving? Hiding? No one ever thanked you, you never gave anyone reason. Worry built in your chest, looking at him shyly. Waiting. <br/>    “For what?”<br/>It sounded defensive, dismissive. But his eyes never changed, watching you. Knowing you. <br/>“You taught me how to raise and care for a son.” <br/>You almost started to cry, the tears welling in your eyes, making you look away and at your hands. It felt too much. After so long of simple understanding, smoke in apartments and afternoon cooking. The verbal, the eyes, the recognition. As if on cue, Jake appears with a basket of french fries. <br/>    “Thanks.”<br/>You smile up at him, and he sits next to you. It’s peaceful, it’s cool and warm at the same time. It’s home. And it’s humming. <br/>“I didn’t know you had a son,” <br/>There’s the taste of salt on your tongue, laughing lodged in your ribs. Familiar noises and smells. Creeping goosebumps up your arm and down your spine and it felt too cold and too hot all at once. Jake’s body is next to yours, close. He seems so familiar yet so foreign to this place. <br/>“Neither did he.” <br/>His voice is warm like the tone of his skin, a smile in his words. It’s nice, you think. To talk with people, simply like it’s normal. You wish this would become normal. It could be. This could be home again, with the way Friz laughs it feels like you never left. <br/>    “Come here again,” <br/>Sternness in his voice, you nod as he stands up. Tiredness: a shared feeling in the air. You don’t need to respond for him to know that you will be back. Maybe he knew when you were leaving. There's some comfort in the guilt. But it is guilt nonetheless. He makes his way into the kitchen, and something in your gut feels that warmth leave. Gone too soon. Way too soon. <br/>When you turn away from the empty white air, you see Jake picking at a french fry on the table. It takes him a moment to feel your gaze, watching his careless actions and the way his face rests with joy. With ease. As if existing isn't hard for him. Maybe it wasn't hard. You hoped. It was hard not to wish well for the nice cashier who mindlessly tired with one of your french fries. Gentle and comfort in him. Like his dad. But something about the way he sat, the way his body rested and the soft smile of his lips, it made you feel something. A feeling deep in your chest making your body tense and your brain fog up. Not that it wasn't foggy before. A different type of fog. The fog is broken when he catches your gaze. For a moment he watches you before glancing down to see what he was fiddling with. <br/>“Oh, sorry.” <br/>He retracts his hand awkwardly and you find the both of you looking at the french fry in question. <br/>“You can just eat it.” <br/>That makes him laugh. And the homesickness, the earth, the fog, the clenching in your sternum. It's all back. And it makes you feel like maybe you might exist but something feels off. It's a good dream. One where your mom is at home right now. One where you have a home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. 7:01pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>mikey and jake go out</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Hey, dad,” How you ended up standing against the door, ready to push it open, watching as Jake leaned against the counter to yell into the kitchen was a mystery to you. “Me and Mikey are going to go out, I’ll be home by ten!” Whatever Friz said in response was lost to your ears, but Jake turned to smile at you with a thumbs up. None of the past hour was in your brain, just empty noises, and senses. Like you had just woken up as soon as the door was pushed open and the cold evening air pressed to your face. It’s weird. You try not to overthink it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, where-to?” Jake is standing on the other side of the door as if the cold doesn’t affect him at all. You’re standing there still holding the door open feeling stupid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Where-to?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” You heard him, you almost shout that you heard him. The stupid voice, the stupid voice. You’re taking too long to respond, it’s all so weird, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, I haven’t been here in literal years so…” You speak as though you normally speak. Like he’s just a friend like you’re just a teenager. Like you talk. You never talk. Jake laughs a little and looks at his feet. He looks so human, standing in the night air, hoodie and no jacket, looking down at his feet, hands in his pockets, he looks real. With the light from Friz’s Fries sign reflecting off his hair, he looks real. “I wouldn’t know.” You finish lamely, letting the door close softly behind you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There you both stand. You feel weird watching him, he looks from his feet to meet your gaze. His eyes shine, they glitter, they seem so content and happy and the awkwardness is only in his smile but not his eyes. No, his eyes remind you of so many things. You ignore it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, sorry, forgot you’re too old to be into the fun hangout spots.” A smirk, sarcasm in his voice. You wanna punch him in the arm and laugh and be happy, but you stop yourself. You’ve known him for a day. And you don’t like people, so you stop yourself. You shake your head instead, smiling. It’s a real smile, you think. You hope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So that’s how you talk to your elders, huh?” It cracks out like you aren’t sure if you meant to say it but Jake just looks up at the sky and chuckles. It’s relaxed, he seems so relaxed. Like this is normal. Maybe it’s normal for him because he doesn’t know you. You mean nothing to him, just a name and a story. You haven’t messed up his life, so he doesn’t care. It’s nice for someone to not care. He stares at the sky for a moment longer, the smile fading as he thinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” He meets your gaze, eyes sparkling, “we have three hours to waste. You don’t seem like the type of guy to go to a club on a Monday night, no offense,” He pauses, hands still in his pockets. You just snort and look at the ground. “So, you can either blindly trust me to waste your time in a slightly fun manner or you can just go back to your hotel and sleep?” His eyebrows are crooked, his voice unshifting, waiting for your answer. Why doesn’t he seem anxious? He just knows what he wants and he gives you a choice. You appreciate the choice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m down for slightly fun.” You say after a minute of those grey eyes watching you. His smile widens and he knocks his head down the street before starting to stroll, letting you run to catch up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The evening air is less colorful than it was on the weekend, the restaurants less full, you trail a step behind Jake. It’s silent for a few minutes as you walk, hands in pockets and faces facing down to block the cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So?” Jake says nonchalantly, watching you from his spot next to you on the sidewalk. The streetlights are yellow, the sky is black, you wonder where he’s taking you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what?” You say back as if you know how to. As if your brain is wired to do this. It’s nice, you keep thinking about how it’s nice. Like your brain is too tired to worry or think or stress or hum. It’s just the city air, the yellow light, the blue air, and Jake. Someone else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t tell my dad why you left.” The question feels weird from a stranger’s mouth, that’s not the voice you thought would ask. It’s not even a question, you didn’t tell Fritz anything. You haven’t told anyone anything, and it’s not starting tonight with a boy you barely know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it bother him?” Jake catches your eyes and cocks an eyebrow. “That I left without reason.” Why does Jake know these things? He shouldn’t know you, you don’t know him. He shrugs and looks back at the world around you, catching your arm to stop you from walking into the middle of a street. You move your arm away as soon as you can, feeling a bit too close. Just a bit uncomfortable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it bother you?” Why could he read you so well? You wanted desperately to change the conversation, to waste your time in a slightly fun manner, not discuss your feelings and life with a teenager.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How old are you anyway?” You try to make it sound joking, but it comes off disdainful. He still laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“19 at the end of November.” Almost as old as you. It’s nice actually, to have someone your age here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” It sounds stupid as you say it like it’s a surprise. Those curious eyes watch you and your face flushes, you try to shake it off and chuckle but it makes the air weird. “Sorry, you just look younger than that.” He laughed and gave you a look, a crinkle in his eyes. It was warm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks?” It’s the crack in his voice, the confusion, the way he’s next to you. Not going anywhere. At least no in this moment, because-</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He will leave. They all do.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Your neck tics, fast and quick and your spine stiffens and you just feel frozen and pain. There’s that look. Gone cold, those eyes crinkling with confusion. You just shake your head and move on, not giving a reason or response to the unspoken question. It’s silent for a moment before he voices it. Voices the question you already responded to, clearly not accepting the silence. Who was this kid? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You okay?” Your throat felt dry and cold, you didn’t meet his gaze or his tone or his concern. He let you sit in the silence before turning back to the world around you both and sighing. Grey air made your gut feel unsure. You tried not to think that you had ruined this, you did though. “So you’re 20.” A statement. It almost elicited a scoff, but you held it back, giving him that look he had given you earlier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah.” You shook your head at the ground. Head down, eyes away. The wind whipped your voice away, and for a moment you thought he didn’t hear you. It was calm, regardless of the breeze and the cold. You weren’t that cold, just a shiver here and there. Just a taste of white on your tongue and blue in your fingers and toes. It made you feel real. Just a bit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes you a second to notice you are now alone, you panic and turn around to see Jake standing on the other side of a crosswalk, the one you apparently just walked through. He’s smiling, confused and a little dazzed looking, but he seems concrete against the night air and the city lights. He’s waiting for you and when you meet his gaze he just starts laughing. Cars zoom past, and you thank the lord you didn’t get hit by a car. Just so Jake could laugh at you, the only thing tethering you here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you let me go into the middle of the crosswalk?” You shout as you make it back to Jake who’s catching his breath. His eyes light up as you shove him slightly before taking a step back so you aren’t in each other’s space. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There were no cars, dude. I wouldn’t have let you kill yourself.” Your neck tics again, but no voice. Not even a hum. He straightens his back, seeming like he’s made of steel in the liquid air. Sturdy but soft, you look away from him and at the blurry world. It’s hard to focus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you stop?” He doesn’t say anything, just crocks his head towards the stairs. The ones that lead down to the subway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The puddles from the melted snow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hands gripping the railings as you try to keep up with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lights that gleam. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bruise on your hip being hit again from the turnstile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there you are standing waiting for a subway with him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re forgetting something.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just stairs </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just the puddles</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just the lack of people at 7:30 pm at night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You grew up here, right?” Jake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” Hands in his pockets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When did you leave?” Digging. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“17.” You let him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, so you’ve definitely done this before.” He speaks so solidly but it’s not scary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Done what?” The train appears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>People. Noise. Silence. Guiding hands. Train cars. Seats. Whispers. Handholds. That surge when the train starts again. Movement. You blink and you’re looking out the window at the city. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ya know, the whole: sitting on an almost empty train car in the evening looking at the city and not feeling bored even though you’re doing nothing.” His voice is so soft, so clean, crisp. Like you can hear. You blink again and look away from the window, the black night sky that almost looks purple. It’s not, but in your head it is. That’s what you see, and you let yourself believe it. The car is empty except for you and Jake. Weird. You swore you heard other people. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I have.” It is your voice, it was when you said it. Real and yours and you felt it in your throat and Jake didn’t flinch but it sounds like a hum now. Like a deep hum, like the train is rattling. Rattling you to your core. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face is so innocent as he looks out the window with you, you take a moment to watch the calmness on his face and the soft smile on his lips before you decide that you should look around and take in the train. You don’t remember ending up here. The both of you are sitting, legs jumbled as you lean against the back of the seats to look out the window. His chin is resting on his crossed arms, you sit up straighter than he is. You try to remember, but you end up forgetting more. You shake your head and get up, the movement of the train chaining you to the world. Like you could fall over and throw up and like you can’t stand straight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shoot, am I boring you?” But he didn’t look worried, just kept looking out the window. Out at the purple sky, the city, the buildings whizzing by. You should say no. No. Because he wasn’t boring you. You were just overwhelmed. You were losing time, and losing your mind, and you didn’t know what was happening really. That you weren’t bored, just trying hard to be okay and it was really hard because he was a stranger and you didn’t know what was happening. You can’t say all that. So you let yourself forget. Because he doesn’t sound worried like he’s joking. He’s not looking away from the window, from the purple sky, from the world. He just wants to watch the world. You should say no. This is okay. You want this. Just let yourself forget. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” You almost shout it. He finally looks away from the sky, now blocked by buildings that look so close they might crash through the window, and at you. You are swaying, ever so slightly. The handholds are empty, you don’t know what your hands are doing. His smile is faint as he watches you and you almost wish the buildings would crash through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No?” He repeated, like he hadn’t heard you. Of course, he had, you were the only one here- you thought. You hoped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not boring me.” His eyes flicker from you to the window, and he nods. But doesn’t speak. Like he can see the purple sky too, even though it’s really black. You’re just making it purple, because it’s so comforting. Warm, making it feel like home. So you make it up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It does,” Flickering back to you, where you stand unsure. About to fall over, the train shaking, making you uncomfortably unbalanced. “Bother him.” Now he’s the one unsure, and it makes you feel better about your clumsy hands and messy words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who?” You say slowly as you try to collect your thoughts, thoughts that aren’t purple. “Oh.” He laughs, just lightly. Slightly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you regret it?” He asks and you can’t tell why. There’s nothing behind his eyes or voice, just watching the world and you want to ask him how he does all this. Without falling over or stuttering or being unsure. Or maybe he just hides it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Regret-” You catch yourself before you ask the question, gulping and looking away from him. It’s rocking, shaking, and you move to sit down next to Jake. Curl your legs under you like you had been before, things feel less shakey.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Answer him.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blink, shiver, turn to meet Jake’s gaze which had settled on you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t recommend you do it.” You joke, you gaff, you…. You gulp. He can see the reality behind your eyes, you thought you were good at hiding it but apparently you aren’t. Not today. Not right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you do?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you miss things here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, you ran away for a reason right?” Silence. He flinches, shifts, just a bit, like he knows he’s probably crossing some line. “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine.” Pause. “I don’t like talking about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s fair.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence again. This isn’t really fun anymore, you almost say and you almost hear the voice in the crevices of your brain say it too. But you don’t. And it doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you like talking about?” Smooth. You almost smile, almost blush, he’s so uncaring and you admire it. Those grey eyes reflect the purple, and those soft hands prop his chin up as he watches and you can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” You don’t know. You don’t really talk. About anything. Outside apologies. “I like listening. Or I... I prefer listening. I guess.” He’s the one who smiles. Looks at you out of the corner of his eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” He says and he stops to think, you see his brain clicking, his eyes not watching. “How about this,” You tilt your head in curiosity. “20 questions? Icebreakers? Equal talking and listening.” You tense up. Get to know you questions. He wants to know you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Small talk, it isn’t really my-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get the feeling nothing is really your thing.” True. “What’s your favorite color?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is periwinkle too weird? Could you have a weird favorite color? You didn’t know, really. It’s just, periwinkle was the last thing stuck in your mind so you open your mouth to say that. That your favorite color is in fact periwinkle: the color in between blue and purple. But you can’t get it out because then you see red and you shiver and he looks at you weird and you forget to say a response outside of:</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Definitely not crimson.” He laughs. It takes you a second before you nod at him and mutter, “What about you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know if yours counts as an answer-” But he catches himself and softens. “My favorite color is sap green.” You hum and nod. He looks at you, eyes wrinkled like his dad. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good color.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think so?” You nod, he laughs again. “Your turn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah.” You think. Maybe you take too long, feels like it when his eyes are on you. When he glances away, you feel cold and relieved. “Uh, are you a dog or a cat person?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dumb question.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dumb question?” You laugh out, getting caught off guard, feeling the humor in your stomach and rippling across your skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, sorry.” He’s laughing too, deep and rich. This all seemed to be repeating. “I’m a dog person.” Hand on his stomach, you watch the bunched fabric and can’t tell what color or texture it is. Its wrinkles seem too deep. You look away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Same.” He nods and watches as you avert your gaze. A dance, repeating, over and over. “Your turn.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he hums, you don’t want to scream or hide or shut him up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Favorite food?” He’s given up meeting your gaze. Back out the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“French fries.” The sky isn’t purple anymore, but the train car is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Funny.” Was it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not kidding. You?” You can’t recognize his face anymore, so you don’t look as he thinks of a response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mom makes really good buttered chicken.” You aren’t hungry but it sounds good. His mom. You don’t dig. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My turn,” It’s easier. “Middle name?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh. Jacob.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” You’re confused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” He shrugs and laughs a little. “No, my first name is </span>
  <span>A</span>
  <span>bhijeet. But my mom gave me an American name too, hence Jacob- or Jake.” You nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Abhijeet is cool.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How about you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My first name isn’t Michael.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just Mikey?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just Mikey. Why don’t you go by like… Abe?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Abe?” He snorts and shakes his head. “Do I look like an Abe?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess not.” You shrug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t answer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” You pause. “It’s Lawerence.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, why would I be lying?” He gives you this look, like you’re being weird or overthinking or like you are a deeply messed up person who needs to realize that some people are good. You are. You don’t like that look.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s your turn.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He asks. You answer. You ask. He answers. Voices and laughing and chatting. About what? You can’t seem to remember. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not as the train stops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not when the buildings stop spinning.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not through the turnstile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not into the icy rain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not when skin touches your skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just for a second.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. 9:38 pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Next time I’ll walk you home.” You had only been arguing about it since you found yourselves in the middle of a rainy night on the opposite end of the city with zero plan of how either of you would get back home. He had insisted he would get you to your hotel since he knew the city better, you had laughed and shook your head. You had forgotten your way around, but only a little. The rest was programmed in your head and legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Next time?” He laughed as he leaned against the wall, the rotating door of your hotel looked warm and inviting. So did he. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh…” You quiver and bit your lip, hands sweaty. Even though it’s so freaking cold out. And it’s raining. Lightly, but not in… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bang.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Splash.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whoosh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s laughing. But he still looks warm as he looks up at the plummeting sky. The ocean meets you. You and that grin. Drenched right outside the lobby, you should’ve invited him inside from the cold. You should’ve done a lot of things, but it’s okay. All of it is okay because Jake is laughing his ass off as his hoodie gets soaked through and your sweaty hands don’t feel hot anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Next time.” He says. Not a question, a hand over his eyes to block the rain so he can look at you. Really look. You wonder what he sees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe the tired stains under your eyes. Ashy paling skin that doesn’t even look the right hue. Soaking clothes that probably show how little you eat underneath. The sweat on your hands must be a different thickness than the rain, or it’s weird how you aren’t blinking the water away from your eyelashes. The dimple as you awkwardly smile. There must be something. Something in the bend of your back, or the way your feet fit your shoes. The texture of your hair. There must be something. Because he looks at you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Other people see a kid, all grown up. Never to grow taller, voice deeper. Ever so slightly. They see the way you buy shoes without thinking about growing room, or the clothes you borrow from someone else your age. Just Mikey. Just Mikey a bit older. They see your mom, your sister. They see him. Hand in hand. They see a soft smile. Jake sees that too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he looks at you. And you aren’t anything more than what you are right now.  There’s no past to consider, no memories. You and Jake have this night, nothing else. He knows things, bits and pieces. But he doesn’t know you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will you be okay getting yourself home?” It’s pouring, heaviest rain of the season. You never wanted it to end. Jake laughs again, and you wonder how much laughter he has saved in his chest. If he buries it like a golden treasure for times like this when the rain won’t stop and nothing is going as planned and there wasn’t even a plan. You wonder if he has a bottle of laughter- if he can share. His eyes twinkle, his skin transparent with the cold rain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about me,” But you would. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And it pours. Heavy and wet. A crying, screaming release. You smile at him. He says goodnight and disappears into the temper tantrum. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hotel is warm. The lobby is lovely, with yellow lighting and carpet that you’re sure is rough under your soaking shoes. No one’s around, not in the closed breakfast nook or on the couches. No one is being helped at the front desk, or buying snacks from the vending machine. It’s just you, and your soaking shoes, and the smell of the hotel. And it feels oddly like home.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re forgetting something.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><span>Something, something, something. </span> <span>But what? </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ignore it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ignore it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ignore it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>             It’s tricking you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So you wander into the elevator and watch the door close, and as soon as you’re alone you sink to the floor and look up at the ceiling. No elevator music, just humming. Your legs hurt and you sit in the elevator alone before you realize that you didn’t click your floor. So you crawl onto your feet to hit the button and then lay down. It’s probably germy and gross, a million wet soles of shoes and suitcases from a million places, but you let your hair get dirty and your clothes get stained and you feel the elevator move. You wanna fall asleep. But…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Key card!” You shout to no one as you sit up, staring at the seam in the elevator doors. It dings, the doors open, you thank the lord no one was on the other side. A kid sitting in an elevator about to cry. So you wait for the doors to close and click the ground floor again and listen to the sounds as it returns. You heave yourself up and take a deep breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One key card later and you realize how empty your chest feels. Like you haven’t eaten… That’s not the lungs. Idiot. The night feels ten years too long and five minutes too fast. It’s in your legs and arms and cold lungs but not in your brain, that’s just fuzz. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You claw your clothes off first. After the key card is returned to your wallet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Socks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Coat? Had you been wearing a coat? That would’ve come off first you guess.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Should you shower? You can’t tell if you want to rip your skin off or put on pajamas and call it a day. They often came together. Tingling red under your thin skin, you can feel the red pumping in your veins. It feels thick in your skin, like smokey air. It clogs your brain and you think you pass out for a minute. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Stay awake.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re trying too, you think. It never listens to you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Stay awake.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/><span>Stay awake. </span> <span>Stay awake. </span> <span>Stay awake. </span> <span>Stay awake. </span> <span>Stay awake. </span> <span>Stay aw-</span></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Paris green.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It makes you feel sickly sweet and tired. Not a new type of tired, nothing different or strange from the way it had been forever. Sometimes you worry. About this. These dreams. You just bury it. You let the crimson settle beneath your skin, you let the periwinkle caress your brain. It stays there, in your body but not your mind. Two times. That was all. That was okay. The voice was just a voice, you were used to this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had started one night. You remember it. Strange. You never remembered things. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The silence had been nice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was peaceful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But not too silent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sometimes you moved on. Sometimes it wasn’t bad. The hum was the hum. It was avoidable, ignorable. Livable. Other times you didn’t shower for weeks, sometimes you cried when your mom played her records. Sometimes it was like this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Green. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sickly green. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sweet and tired. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It made you want to sleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s poisonous.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The voice reminded. It always reminded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It killed Napoleon Bonaparte.” You said because you had said it before.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You had donethis before. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Third times the charm.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The voice reminded. It always reminded. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The crimson had stained the shower for weeks, your mom had asked why you only showered at his place. If his parents minded. They hadn’t. The crimson had stuck in your skin whenever your sister raised her voice or your mom looked at you tiredly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The periwinkle was in the cigarette smoke and the records. It was in the car trips and bus stops. It had held your brain when you fell asleep, promising yourself things would get better.Things hadn’t. The periwinkle had stuck, your mom said you were stuck daydreaming all the time. The daydreams had been bluish purple. Purplish blue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Paris green had crept up, without warning. Filling your body with warmth and sweet sickness. Then it made your blood boil. It made your brain hurt and your skin rot. Your throat burned when you swallowed and your mom’s voice seemed disappointed. The fights were louder, made it’s because your face hurt and your stomach felt sick. Had the side effects ever worn away? Was the voice just the reminder that your body was burdened. But it was all fake wasn’t it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Open your eyes.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>You did. It was empty. Why had the backs of your eyelids been Paris green? It was so empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where am I?” Did it matter? You were asleep. It had told you to stay awake… It was your fault, wasn’t it?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Set up main menu.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does that mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Do you want to set up main menu?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve said no for four fucking years.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Is that a yes?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You have to say it.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>“Okay.</span> <span>Yes.” </span></p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. 3:56 am, Tuesday, November/15th/2019</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You feel the hot air blowing on you from the air conditioner unit. That’s all you think for a moment. Heat. Then you realize you’re sitting straight up in bed. Scratchy thin paper in your hands. You open one eye, the warm light from the lamppost outside your window lighting up the wall. It’s nice. It’s warm. The red letters of the clock state the time. It hits your body, five hours of sleep. That’s decent. Did it count as sleep?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s this? The paper in your hand looked yellow in the lighting, the darkness making the words hard to read as you squinted at it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What’s your name?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The paper stated like it had the right to ask. Shoulders slumped, eyes begging to go back to sleep, you wanted to stay like that. Hunched in bed, warm, so warm. Begrudgingly you crawl out of the bed to the bedside table and open the drawer. A bible, a pad of paper, and there. A ballpoint pen. The ink would dry blue, you could tell as you closed the drawer. It looked black in this lighting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What’s your name? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You pause to think. Why did you think? The letters on the page are simple. Your hotel-pen handwriting looks like a mess as you scribble your name, when was the last time you wrote something by hand? </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What’s your name?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey Lawerence Thomas. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You put the pen on the table and hold the paper still, trying to still your shaking hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Thank you.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Was that it? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome?” You fold the paper and put it next to the pen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your bed looks warm. You feel tired still. So you crawl back it and admire the yellow lighting on the wall. It’s not green. Thank god it’s not green. Your throat still burns. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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